Dobu: Ethics of Exchange on a Massim Island, Papua New Guinea 0824827317, 9780824827311

Citation preview

Dosu

Google

To Michael W. Young

Digitized byGoogle

Original from

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

Dosu

ETHICS OF EXCHANGE ON A Massim IsLaNb, Papua New GUINEA

A

UNIVERSITY OF HAWAI'I PRESS HONOLULU

Google

A CHP production Published in North America by University of Hawai’i Press 2840 Kolowalu Street Honolulu, Hawai’i 96822-1888 Published in Australia by Crawford House Publishing Australia Pty Ltd P.O. Box 50, Belair SA 5052

Cover design by Travis Crawford ISBN 0-8248-2731-7 Copyright © 2005 Susanne Kuehling All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Printed in India. 070605

321

Google

CONTENTS

Map oF SouTH-EasT New GUINEA Maps oF Dosu IsLanp ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 1

WHAT IS A ‘DOBUAN’?

State, church and conversion: the Dobuan of the Methodists

7

11

THE DOBU

27

CONCEPT OF THE PERSON

Dimensions of personhood in Dobu ‘Work’ as a personal gift

“On the inside’: notions of individuality Language, possession and space

Spirit and person

18

28

30

34 36

42

The head (deba- or bulubulu)

43

The blood (lala-)

46

The relational person

The skin (bwala)

States of the body Person and gender 3

1

Science and conscience: The anthropologists’ Dobuan Under the wings of a Dobu ‘mother’

2

viti-ix xxi xii

45

48

50 53

PATHS AND PATTERNS OF EVERYDAY EXCHANGES

59

Options of support

64

Hamlet life and the duty of ‘help’ The bird clan (manua)

Those who ‘stand behind’ (muli) Ethics of everyday life Strategies of sharing and hiding Behind the facade — conflict and consolidation ‘Small gifts’

Google

61

66

68 69 72 79 81

4

‘BIG GIFTS’ AND THE CLAIM TO FAME

‘Working’ for wealth Yam - the root of women’s power

Bebai — the Big Yams °Une — at the heart of exchange Pigs - the beloved protein

Bagi and mwali - shells of the kula ring

Criteria of value The ‘gender’ of valuables The concept of kitomwa - ownership or management?

The use of ’une and bebai

THE GIFT THAT KILLS - WITCHCRAFT

Negative exchange

AND

SORCERY

Emotions of retribution

The vulnerability of the mind

You never know - the loophole

Exchange of the gaze: a panoptic perspective

GIFTS OF CASH FOR GOD AND GOODS

Tapwalolo: How to give to the Lord The ambiguity of business ‘Money is like yams’

‘Money is like tobacco and betel nuts’ Development from below? Paradise and Cowboy: the ‘mixed person’ Women’s liberation?

STRATEGIC FRIENDSHIPS AND PRECIOUS

A Dobu-centric view of kula To Duan, The land of plenty: An account of kula travel The secrets of kula magic

Leaving Dobu — the trip begins

Starting kula: a greenhorn’s position The art of cheating Home sweet home: gifts, gagasa and gossip

Playing the game of fame Exchange ‘intoxication’?

Google

116 122 124 129 134 138 146 146 156 168 171 173 174 177

MEMORIES:

THE DOBU WAY OF KULA

Visiting the partner

87 91 92 96 98 98 101 103 106 110 111

183 188 192 198 201 202 207 212 216 219 222

8

THE PRICE OF LOVE: MORTUARY

FEASTING AND PATERNAL

DUTY

Feasting the dead: Basa, bwabwale and dugumalala

Wailing over the body ‘Eating’ is ‘work’ Dugumalala - the ‘short cut’ Sagali in Losina Getting it all together The platform On top of the world - sagali euphoria Love, shame and duty

EPILOGUE APPENDIX 1: Words for ‘inner’ states ApPENDIX 2: List of affinal exchanges APPENDIX 3: Glossary Notes BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX

Google

229 235 236 237 244 247 253 257 265 271 280 287 290 292 294 314

i} 0

Wanigela

Shay

™\

®

Vakuta

i

Goodenough I.

i

Collingwood Bay

Suabina

Bay Dufaure |

2D

Mullins Harbour

4

Q? Kitava

°

3°. Cape Nelson Tif

Kiriwina |

4

94 Brumer |.

70 Suau 1.74

esoO Samarai

Tubetube I. Basitaki . |

San 0

‘D.Lilivea 1.

Sideia |. a

SOUTH-EAST Papua New GuINEA

Google

°

DennettIs 6

&

Woodlark |.

9 J Oo

%

oO Misima|.

Paneeatil ny

XD

eo Louis, MADE °

.

|

ZU

Mo0q

Ap

2 og

nese

AERIAL PHOTOGRAPH OF Dosu IsLaND

Digitizedby Goc gle

UNIVERST

IGAN

Dosu IsLAND

GULEBUBU

Kilometers

WONATAON=

HAMLETS

Asatupi Wei'itaa

Piesiya Dewasiya

Gewana alena

Tala’a’ai Diluba

Tutuwana Doeluya

Ebwaiobwaio

Nemunemu

Kwakwamoiya

Tutui

36 Losina 37 Ebibiya

38 39

Asalimwau

Wagamoe

Losina Obunebune

Gamwalalaina

Giyowena

Apo’a 4 Budobudoya

Sowalata

Domuneya

43

Sape’u

DARGIS

Namowa

33 Budoya 34 Asa ‘auya 35 Naiyala

Walauya

Mwemweyala

Mulisiiya

Asanedu Gaula

lyaya.

Soisokalena

Bweuliya Galiyedudu Liyadolo Siwabuya

40

42

44

51

52

53 54

55

56 57

Bwatete

Asa’etana Buwai

Upwapoi

Mwagelai

Tabowai Dawada

Lebwagaya Asaluwa Kapwei alena

Kuyaina

58

Wabalaalena

60 Naikwala

Manibusi

45 Le’awaya 46 Sawagumana 47 Usewaia 48

49

50

59

61 62

Kampania Losina

Debataya

Todibu

xi

oiatzesty GOOgIe

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My interest in Dobu Island was sparked and nourished by Professor

Emeritus Erhard Schlesier, himself a Massim specialist, whose classes

on Culture and Language of Dobu were inspirational. My parents, Ute

and Jiirgen Kuehling, my grandfather, Hubertus Wilbrandt, as well as my surrogate parents, Antje and Wilhelm Pallmann, supported me financially as well as emotionally. Further assistance was granted by the Draeger Stiftung, the Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung and an Australian Overseas Postgraduate Research Scholarship held in the Department of Anthropology, the Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies at

the Australian National University. I wish to thank these persons and

institutions for the trust they placed in me.

The Papua New Guinea Embassy in Bonn (Germany); the National Research Institute (NRI) in Boroko; the Department of Sociology and

Anthropology of the University of Papua New Guinea in Waigani; and

the Milne Bay Provincial Government provided me with research permits and valuable advice. Jacob Simet, Roslyn Busasa, Don

Niles,

Michael Laki, Solomon Yowait and Sanori Elliot were especially helpful and encouraging.

While working on Dobu Island, so many people tolerated me and my initial ignorance of their ethics of exchange. They helped me learn their way of life called bubuna Dobu and generously shared their lives

with me. I cannot mention them all by name, but wish to thank them

all for their assistance, friendly criticism and care. ‘Kaibado’, my fa-

therly mentor, and Alexander Meleodi, my principal teacher in kula matters, stand out in their efforts and support, but my work would have been impossible without the love of Losina children, who com-

forted me whenever I felt lonely. MeDobu, ya da lokagutoki emiya, imi lema be, oboboma be, amayaba be, alamai’ita be manuna. Geya’abo

ya da nuapupulemi ana laba mwamwasa. Gete buki nina ida buki, igu

paisewa be ima paisewa enega i apwesama, tomotai idi ebe-sawa. Mali

epata be mali epata iabeni si memai si sasawa be nai idi ebe-nuasabwala. Nigeya sawesawenaya be imi paisewa ya da e’isa ai’aila.

xii

Google

Acknowledgements During fieldwork, Peter Erben, Patrick Glass, the Inman family and

Atelin Fred were supportive when I was most in need: Peter accommo-

dated me when I wanted a refuge, Patrick encouraged me as a compe-

tent colleague and fellow fieldworker (on nearby Normanby Island),

the Inmans’ telephone allowed me to keep in touch with home. Atelin,

the first female United Church minister, helped me to deal with conflicts and thereby taught me how to practise love, respect and selfdiscipline in a Dobu way. Labenia Ephraim and Lukas Baloiloi saw me through a near-fatal attack of malaria and the staff of Salamo hospital saved the life of my son. I cannot thank these people ever enough for their care. While writing up my PhD thesis in Canberra, many students be-

came friends and their emotional support and comments on drafts were

very helpful. I am grateful to all of them, especially to Bettina Sostmann, Sheree Ronaason, Liz Branigan, Greg Rawlings, Julia Byford, Peter Raftos, Eriko Aoki, Yunita Winarto and Tim Curtis.

Ipa Ayamiseba and the ‘Black Brothers’ cared for my baby son Leon Kegalai when I was working on the manuscript. My love for

them is as deep as my gratitude. Saya mengucapkan banyak terima

kasih atas bantuan dan pertolongan Anda yang telah diberikan kepada

saya dan atas persababatan kita yang begitu menyenangkan hati saya. Academic support was generously given by Margaret Jolly, Sjoerd Jaarsma, Sinclair Dinnen, Bronwen Douglas, J.J. Fox, and, last but not least, Linus Digim’Rina, whose competence and intellectual enouragement gave me confidence in my arguments. The Cartography

Department of RSPAS drew the map, Annette Dusel polished the graphics; Rosemarie Oesselmann and Annegret Schemberg helped with sub-

tle translations from the German and editing. The final editing was

done as a Visiting Fellow at the Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, ANU, in March 2002.

My supervisors, Alan Rumsey and Michael Young, scrupulously commented on early drafts of my thesis, urging me to develop my arguments and tolerating my (sometimes odd) English expressions and

syntax. Alan’s support was crucial at a point when my confidence had gone and I was considering a cowardly way out of the dilemma. How can I ever repay him?

It was Michael who first accepted me as a student, in fact, his last

student before taking early retirement. His willingness to work on my

xiii

Google

Dobu

English and to polish the surface of my text has made this book readable, and even, I would like to think, enjoyable. To my son, Michael

was as close to a godfather as he was ever likely to get. For all these reasons I wish to dedicate this book to him. Susanne Kuehling

Heidelberg, May 2003

xiv

Google

Chapter 1

‘Wuat ts A ‘DOBUAN’?

What it is (a task at which no one ever does more than is to inscribe a present - to convey in words ‘what somewhere specific in the lifeline of the world: Here, as said, rather than There; Now rather than Then.

not utterly fail) it is like’ to be Pascal famously Whatever else

ethnography may be — Malinowskian experience seeking, LéviStraussian

rage for order, Benedictine cultural

irony, or Evans-

Pritchardish cultural reassurance — it is above all a rendering of the

actual, a vitality phrased. [Geertz 1988: 143]

Dobu is a name widely known in anthropology as a place of ‘sorcerers’. This monograph is about a different Dobu, not only in time and space,

but from a different perspective. As the name ‘Dobu’ has been used -— and abused — in the literature, this book is also an overdue realignment

of anthropological perspective. ‘Dobu’ is a trope that has been turned in many ways." I will turn it in yet another, attempting to create a less ethnocentric image. My ethnography is based on essential elements of Dobu worldview as they present themselves in language, myth and everyday practice. By focussing on my experience of similarity and

mutual understanding, I explore aspects of personhood and agency, issues of recent concern in the Melanesian context. Based on intensive fieldwork, the methodology of this study re-

flects my subjective perspective. ‘Plunging into their life’ (Malinowski 1922: 21-2, see also Geertz 1984: 72) made me a competent speaker of the vernacular, and being immersed in their lives I created (often by

chance) an intensely personal network of relations. My study is based

on the presumption that one can ‘understand’ what ‘they’ do, feel, and even think, only when the relationship is shifted away from a racially

informed ‘White/Black’ level (which both parties normally assume automatically) to a more intimate level of personal friendships and animosities, where skin colour is less significant. Becoming involved in

their conflicts, public and private affairs, sharing the food, heat, and sicknesses of everyday life created an open space for my encounters. It 1

Google

Dobu

is these encounters that form the bulk of my ethnographic material,

and I am confident that in the end I did ‘understand’ Dobu people. The

monograph attempts to mediate this understanding by building on Dobu

perspectives, as they offer themselves in linguistic and ideological con-

cepts of sociality.

As it turned out, this approach to fieldwork, combined with the

scope of contemporary anthropological paradigms, opened to view

dimensions of Dobu life and society that have been neglected in previ-

ous accounts. Reo Fortune’s classic Sorcerers of Dobu (1932, 1963)

was not only based on a different, colonial approach to fieldwork, but

his theoretical stance exemplified a functionalism which limited the depth of his analysis. His ‘Dobuan’ is known to almost every social anthropologist but I cannot agree with the general tone of his description. It will become clear that my comments on his study are based on

a different discourse of interpretation.

Ruth Benedict’s bestseller, Patterns of Culture (1934), introduced

the ‘Dobuan’ to a wider public as the archetypical ‘Dionysian’. Aggressive and paranoid, the ‘Dobuan’ stood opposed to the archetypical ‘Appollonian’, characterised by restraint and moderation like the Zufi

(1934: 238). Although the ‘Dobuan’ helped support Benedict’s thesis

of cultural relativism, her account is based on selective, limited and

skewed data that do not, and probably never did, correspond with

Dobu reality. Since Benedict, anthropological approaches to ‘culture’ have developed increased subtlety and flexibility. The notion of ‘gift exchange’ has been in continual deployment since Malinowski’s account of the kula (1922), Mauss’s analysis of the meaning of gifts (1990, first pub-

lished in 1925) and Lévi-Strauss’s structural analysis of kinship and marriage (1949). Transactional approaches to gift exchange (Strathern 1971, Young 1971) were followed by Marxist-inspired analyses that

focussed on economic aspects (Gregory 1980, 1982, 1983). Studies of

exchange focussing on symbolism include those of Schwimmer (1973), Weiner (1976, 1985, 1992), Munn (1986), Lepowsky (1994), B. and E. Schieffelin (1990, 1976).

My own interest extends from the symbolic dimensions of exchange

into the sphere of ethics and personal conduct, and I wish to explore in particular the nexus between ethical rules, emotions and exchange.

Although this approach may suggest cultural determinism (White and 2

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan’?

Kirkpatrik 1985, Lutz 1988, Rosaldo 1980), I would claim that from

a Dobu point of view, individual agency is built on innate predispositions (see Epstein 1992).

Bourdieu has criticised the tendency to focus attention solely on ideological or material presumptions underlying exchange behaviour (1977). Yet real life offers more options than, for example, the concept of ‘reciprocity’ (Sahlins 1972) can possibly account for: All experience of practice ... affirms that cycles of reciprocity are not

the irresistable gearing of obligatory practices found only in ancient

tragedy: a gift may remain unrequited, if it meets with ingratitude; it may be spurned as an insult. Once the possibility is admitted that the ‘mechanical law’ of the ‘cycle of reciprocity’ may not apply, the whole

logic of practice is transformed. [1977: 9]

Exchange has been defined by Annette Weiner as a code with a reproductive structure developed through the symbolising of resources. To Weiner, the motivation for ‘keeping-while-giving’ is grounded in the need to secure some permanence in a world that is always subject to loss and decay. People need to recreate the past, build up a historical

consciousness that disguises change through symbols that stand for

the past (1992: 7). Similarly, B. Schieffelin states that the giving of food not only displays relationships between persons but the act of

eating that food becomes memory, ‘an enduring, created social fact’ (1990: 245). According to Munn, exchange is a kind of transformative

action that enables a society to live out basic values and norms: ‘Exchange rituals each form a particular mode

in intersubjective

spacetime’ (1986: 122). These approaches regard exchange as a crucial aspect of social life, necessary to understand basic principles of interaction — a point that is certainly true for the Massim. Classic distinctions of economic anthropology have recently been deconstructed by anthropologists. Fajans, for instance, defines the con-

cept of production in broadest terms asa ‘total process of constructing the social person and society itself rather than merely the production

of material substances although it entails the latter’ (1993a: 3, 1993b: 59). Myers’ (1993: 35ff) distinction between hierarchical

(intergenerational care) and equivalent forms of production (sharing, helping each other) shows that labour is just as often a ‘gift’ as it is a

subsistence activity. Labour is also linked to social transformation and

3

Google

Dobu

replacement (Fajans 1993a: 1). My own argument is based on the as-

sumption that labour is an indicator of personal qualities and a ‘gift’ that is crucial in creating the social person. As food production, labour is based on gender-specific roles and physical experiences that contribute to the symbolic meaning of the produce. For example, yams are not simply ‘resources’; for most Massim people they are ‘persons’ that

have to be treated with respect. In culturally specific ways, food carries notions of symbolic experiences that explain taboos and rules of con-

sumption and exchange (Schieffelin 1976: 65). According to Bourdieu, it is useful to focus on the wider category of ‘symbolic capital’, the yield of ‘symbolic exchange’, which he re-

gards as the ‘fake circulation of fake coin’ that operates through socially approved self-deception (1977: 6). This perspective permits a direct link to be made between gift and commodity systems:

[Slymbolic capital, which in the form of the prestige and renown

attached to a family and a name is readily convertible back into economic capital, is perhaps the most valuable form of accumulation ...

[1977: 179, his italics)

If the scope of the economic is widened enough, he claims, all objects

and experiences of value, including non-material expressions such as a shrug or a handshake, can be analysed as ‘practice’:

The only way to escape from the ethnocentric naiveties of economism, without falling into populist exaltation of the generous naivety of earlier forms of society, is to carry out in full what economism does only partially, and to extend economic calculation to all the goods, material and symbolic, without distinction, that present themselves as rare and

worthy of being sought after in a particular social formation — which

may be ‘fair words’ or smiles, handshakes or shrugs, compliments or

attention, challenges or insults, honour or honours, powers or pleasures, gossip or scientific information, distinction or distinctions, etc.

[1977: 178]

Exchange is a vantage point from which to discover cultural ethics. The value of the gift is implicitly founded on the emotional value of the object given, for the ‘sheer pleasure of possessing’ (Mauss 1990: 23, 31; see also Weiner 1992: 144). Exchange has long been recognised as being related to ethical concepts and to the display of emotions, such as ‘pride’ (Mauss 1990: 23) or even ‘happiness’ (Gell 1992: 149)

4

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan’?

and the ‘love for exchange’ for its own sake (Fortune 1932: 193). These

terms need further clarification and definition in cultural terms, however.

In Dobu,

individual desires are contested

by communal

demands and individuals have to assume roles as ‘givers’ and ‘takers’

in order to be socially accepted. The principal ethics of everyday life are used in discourse to explain individual behaviour, negotiate personal

conflicts and to legitimise strategies of bonding or separation. These

ethics restrain expression of certain thoughts and emotions and encourage individuals to present themselves in a manner that is judged to be ‘good’. Exchange has also been identified as implicated in conflict. Since

Young’s monograph Fighting with Food (1971), the coercive use of

exchange in Melanesia has become a widely recognised phenomenon.

Not only are tensions evident in gift-giving, but conflicts between groups are often created and solved in this context. Munn considers witchcraft and sorcery as forms of negative exchange (1986: 267). Sanc-

tions against morally wrong behaviour are most visible and explicit if expressed in terms of incorrect exchange behaviour, for individual motives are usually hidden. Uncovering the roots of personal conflicts is often impossible as even an extended research period does not enable one to plumb the necessary depths of privacy; besides, in many

cases the situation is too complex even for those involved to reach

clear resolutions (see Brison 1992).

Analysis of the ethics of exchange can be a useful point of depar-

ture into dimensions of interpersonal relationships that are otherwise inaccessible. It also helps to clarify the culturally constructed concept

of the person. Such an approach provides a versatile research tool be-

cause exchanges are mostly constructed as a means for the expression

of inner feelings. Moreover, the concreteness of material exchange helps to diminish the risk of misinterpretation caused by the researcher’s

own cultural preconceptions (Brookfield 1973: 15, see also Rosaldo

1980: 23-4). Schieffelin points to the different set of values regarding

exchange as between Kaluli and Western ethics:

Where human relationships are stated so strongly in terms of material reciprocity, material gain and personal affection are not so morally dissociated as they are in the West. Consequently, material concerns are also sentimental ones, and to state one’s desires in terms of sentiment

is not the hypocrisy it would be for us. [1976: 150]

Google

Dobu

To exchange or not to exchange is a question that often goes far beyond the requirements of subsistence, resource management, and maintenance

of social relations through forms of reciprocity. Exchange can serve as a metaphor of personal relationships and, ultimately, of life: ‘Kaluli

equate breakdowns in reciprocity, assistance, sharing, hospitality, and camaraderie with vulnerability, loss, abandonment, isolation, loneliness,

and ultimately, death’ (Schieffelin 1990: 114). The personal and the

social as they are manifested in exchanges bring together two aspects

that have often been studied separately. Myers rightly claims that ‘issues of personhood and exchange are twins’ (1993: 33).

The concept of the person in ‘Melanesia’ has been vigorously re-

furbished by Marilyn Strathern in an attempt to deconstruct gender dichotomies (1988). The Gender of the Gift argues that ‘Melanesians’ are distinct from ‘Westerners’ in the way they relate to one another:

‘Western culture imagines people as persons existing in a permanently subjective state; this is their natural and normal condition

In

Melanesian culture, people are imagined in contrasting modes — male

and female, same-sex and cross-sex, a person always one of a pair of

interrelated forms. [1988: 338]

My perspective on exchange is based on the presumption of individual

agency, incorporated in the Dobu notion of ‘work’. With the concept of ‘symbolic capital’ in mind, my argument focuses on those aspects of

the person that are relational yet individually shaped. Gifts are, it

follows, expressions of personal strategies to modify relationships within the parameters of social time and social space. Bourdieu has pointed out the importance of such strategies for an understanding of practice: Then there are all the strategies intended simply to neutralize the action of time and ensure the continuity of interpersonal relations, drawing the continuous out of the discontinuous, as mathematicians do, through

infinite multiplication of the infinitely small, in the form, for example,

of the ‘little presents’ said to keep friendship going (‘O present- thunticht

~you won’t make me rich but you are the bond of friendship’). [1977: 7] Here Bourdieu uses an example based on a ‘named gift’ (thunticht).

The ploy of giving small gifts is to accumulate social credit rather than

economic benefit. The proliferation of terms for forms and items of 6

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan’?

exchange, it seems, is a way of avoiding undue categorisation. Mauss

was surely wrong when he called such broad semantic fields ‘childish’: The somewhat childish legal language of the Trobriand Islanders has

given rise to a proliferation of distinctive names for all kinds of total counter-services, according to the name of the service that is being compensated, the thing given, the occasion, etc. [Mauss 1990: 30}

On Dobu, a similarly rich vocabulary of exchange indicates the subtle

discriminations being made when giving and taking, sharing and hiding,

demanding and refusing. It underlines the importance of exchange expressing ‘total social facts’. This is reflected in the abundance of special terms for types of gifts and types of exchanges. These names for gifts can serve as keys for the study of Dobu exchange and interaction.

Postmodernism has created an increased awareness of the ethnocentricity that lurks within anthropological concepts. The

deconstruction of key notions, such as the dichotomies of culture-nature, male-female, domestic-public (Strathern 1988), gift-commodity

(Macintyre and Young 1982), emotion-rationality (Lutz 1988) gives

way to a search for more appropriate categories of analysis. To avoid the trap of undue pre-structuring of data resulting in inappropriate interpretation, I ground my study in the Dobu vernacular (the ‘name _of the gift’) as a point of departure into the complexity of exchanges.

Indeed, focusing on the ‘name of the gift’ as a linguistic and social

category enables valuable insight into locally significant units of action and reflection. It provides a perspective on both the mechanisms and ethics of exchange, and relates them directly to the concept of the person and notions of individual agency in Dobu society. This study

reveals a complex and dynamic structure of society. The ‘actors’ are identified as persons with emotions, striving for personal goals by a variety of means. State, church and conversion: the ‘Dobuan’ of the Methodists

The colonial history of Dobu is unusually well documented and has been studied by both historians and anthropologists.? Dobu Island,

nested between two of the three main islands of the D’Entrecasteaux Group, was named ‘Goulvain’ by the French explorer Bruny-

7

Google

Dobu

D’Entrecasteaux in 1793, although he did not approach it closely. Contact with traders and ‘blackbirders’ as well as exploring naturalists

and the first government officers occurred from the middle of the next

century. These contacts were not always peaceful, but by the turn of the century, Dobu

‘gosiagos’ (from gosiagu, my friend) like other

D’Entrecasteaux islanders, were eagerly signed on as the ‘best workmen

in Papua’ (Young 1983c). Dobu was nevertheless conceived as ‘the savage heart of the D‘Entrecasteaux’ (see Young 1983b: 5; 1997: 100),

an image frequently reiterated in the literature:

Dobu ... a strong seafaring community of exceptional ferocity, who, as raiders and cannibals said to have drunk the blood of their victims, were the scourge of the coasts of a large area. [Brass 1960: 21] Dobu played its part in the establishment of the colonial state in British

New Guinea. The island region was difficult to pacify and the Administrator, Sir William MacGregor, needed a location from which

to exercise colonial power and supervise the Pax Britannica. Syme’s historical analysis suggests that it was MacGregor who coined the image of the Dobuans as the most notorious raiders in the territory in order to encourage a mission to settle among them (1985: 9-20). In 1890,

MacGregor invited the Wesleyan Missionary Society to open their first

station in what became the Papuan Islands Region on Dobu Island (see also MacGregor 1893: 22-3; Brown 1908: 465-512, B. Thomson 1889;

J. Thomson

1889; Watson

1941). The Wesleyan Secretary-General,

George Brown, also favoured Dobu as the best site for the first mission

station for his own strategic reasons. Apart from its central location, the ‘savagery’ of Dobu could be exploited to raise funds. John Wesley had advised his followers to ‘go to those who need you most’, among whom

the ‘worst’

sinners were

to be found.

Moreover,

Dobu

‘commanded local respect’ for its centrality in the kula ring and for its

fierce fighters (Young 1997: 100). If Dobu became secure, mission

stations on other islands would follow quickly. The first missionary party arrived in July 1891 with overwhelming strength:

at least four ships containing, in addition to the 73 members of the missionary party, several resident magistrates, local village constables

and interpreters, as well as the Administrator himself, Sir William MacGregor, together with his armed entourage. The Dobuans, one can

well imagine, were suitably awed. [Young 1997: 101]

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan’?

During the first month, three catechists died of fever, which in the eyes of many Dobu islanders was due to their sorcery (Bromilow 1914: 550).

Initial attempts of Dobu men to murder the members of the missionary party failed. According to present-day stories the would-be assassins were frightened away by the technical gadgets of the missionaries. These stories are widely disseminated. They are integrated in the curriculum

of the Bunama Bible School (on Normanby Island) and often told during

church services. They have become ‘stories from the past’, believed to

be true representations of the beginning of the mission. A text from the (United Church) Bunama Bible School, by David Duigu, reads:

So the Dobu people thought they should be friendly to them and also

the leaders did not want violence and they said: ‘We will simply wait

and see what is going to happen through these people’. But one night

they got up and sneaked to the mission in order to kill them but as they saw the bright light of the lamp they thought that the spirits of the white people were there to protect them. (My translation]*

Another version recalls that the sound of Bromilow’s radio scared the Dobu men away (Thune 1981: 3-4). Yet another claims that the land

on which the mission station was built was formerly avoided as it was haunted by spirits; the ability of the missionaries to live there without harassment by these spirits was an indication of their superior spiritual

power.’ MacGregor’s report from Dobu in 1895 to 1896 noted: ‘All was found to be well there, and the Reverend W. Bromilow had heard of no recent unusual occurrence in the district’ (1897: 3). The writings

of MacGregor and the missionaries of the time represented Dobu people as pacified cannibal raiders who were improving through conversion

to Christianity.*

Today, Dobu people have wholly adopted the missionaries’ versions of the past and represent themselves as ‘saved savage cannibals’ (see also Young 1997: 98). In 1961, Fortune published English translations of four letters from ‘Dobuans abroad’ that were originally writ-

ten for a Methodist journal in Dobu language. In these letters (dating

from 1939 to 1957), Dobu missionaries expressed their pity for the

‘savage’ lives of Australian Aborigines and New Guinea Highlanders

of Mendi. A visit to Sydney, on the other hand, inclined them to iden-

tify with Australians: ‘all these [buildings] by our whites made us applaud’ (Baloiloi as quoted by Fortune 1961: 315). Many Dobu Chris9

Google

Dobu

tians believe that they are God’s chosen people because He made them

so bad that His missionaries had to come to them first. Savage sinners have long since turned into devout Christians, however. They were

‘lifted up’ into the ‘clean village’, as in the following verse of a hymn: Hymn 393, verse two” Bubuna to’umalina

My bad behaviour

’Asa ’esa’esasena Enayaa ’uetoorogu.

The clean village You will lift me up into it.

’I gi’eumeumegu.

Made me blind.

According to Syme, the establishment of exchange relations between

the missionaries and the locals enabled its success.

Apart from the additional wealth which made its way from the

missionaries to the ‘Edugaula people through various means, the

missionaries also enhanced the ‘beauty’ and ‘desirability’ of the people

by frequently administering ointments to help clear up the disfiguring sarcoma (ringworm)... [1985: 89-90]

It has long been a matter of conformity to be a Christian, at least in the

Edugaula area of Dobu Island, where the mission station was originally

established.* The Edugaula

dialect became the standard

‘Dobu

language’, ‘Ena Dobu, the Christian lingua franca of the Milne Bay region, when hymn books and the Bible were translated into it.’ The first missionary couple, William and Lilly Bromilow," left such a strong

impression on Dobu people that they might well be called ‘missionary heroes’ (Young 1997: 93,100-5). Ninety-two-year-old Robert Galiaune, who had served as a cook for the Bromilows, recalls the 1920s:

He was a good man. He would not get angry, he liked to see everybody.

He also wanted the old men. Every afternoon they would see him in his house. His ways were good. Mrs Bromilow, too. All the women, the

old ones as well, went to her house and they sang songs, for example ‘Three blind mice’.

Bromilow’s patience with the people was also recalled by his colleague

and successor Gilmour: ‘I never knew him or heard of him losing patience with a native’ (1941: 4). His ‘bigoted, sanctimonious and crudely paternalistic’ views (Young 1977b: 145) are, however, evident

from his own writings. 10

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan’?

The mission headquarters were moved from Dobu to the healthier

site of Ubuia in 1906 (Bromilow 1914: 553, 557). By then there were

many converts, who helped to build the stone church. This was finally

completed in 1929, a monument to the success of the Methodist Mis-

sion. The building is frequently used as Church activities play an important part in many people’s lives. Members of the Women’s and Youth Fellowships meet at least once a week, and their groups have

regular outings, crusades and retreats.'' They are proud of the long

tradition of Dobu Christianity and fully believe in the missionary trope of ‘saved savages’.

Science and conscience: The anthropologists’ ‘Dobuan’ Malinowki’s impression of ‘Dobuans’, based on encounters and short

visits to the area, was marked by overall sympathy:

In personal appearance, the Dobuans have a very distinct physique... very dark-skinned, small of stature... they give a strange, almost gnomelike impression on a

first encounter. In their manner, and their tribal

character, there is something definitely pleasant, honest and open — an impression which long acquaintance with them confirms and strengthens. They are the general favourites of the whites... [1922: 40-1]

A decade later, this benign image was dramatically redrawn by Fortune’s

malign description of ‘Dobuans’ as paranoid, treacherous and jealous. If the missionaries used ‘Dobuans’ to raise funds for their work of conversion, anthropologists came to know Dobu as part of the kula

ring and the home of sorcerers. In America, Fortune’s monograph was

recommended by Benedict for undergraduate teaching (see Mead

1966: 321). In Britain, it was immediately accepted thanks to Malinowski’s enthusiastic introduction (Mead 1972: 160). Two years

after Sorcerers of Dobu was published, Dobu was introduced to an even wider audience by Patterns of Culture. Ruth Benedict used the

‘Dobuan’ as an example of one modality of the savage within all of us and further narrowed the focus of Sorcerers of Dobu to press her argument about cultural relativism. Examples from ‘Dobw’ are still abundant

in the anthropological literature.'? ‘Dobuans’ have been: discussed in recent works on exchange theory (for example, Sahlins 1972; Gudeman. 1986; Foster 1993: 16), with regard to kula exchange (for example,

11

Google

Dobu

Uberoi 1962, Leach and Leach 1983), and mortuary feasting (for example, Bloch and Parry 1982; Damon

and Wagner

1989). ‘Dobu’

has entered other realms of anthropological theory, too, in particular as an example of alternating avuncolocal residence (for example, Murdock 1949: 335; Richards 1950: 209, 248 n.1) and, of course, as the home of the most notorious sorcerers (for example, Patterson 1974).8

In 1928 to 1929, Reo Fortune spent five months among the ‘forty

odd souls’ (xi) who inhabited Tewara Island (off north-east Fergusson).

He also stayed for one month with the people of Basima on the adja-

cent coast of Fergusson and later concluded his fieldwork in the area with a one month stay on Dobu Island itself, an ‘avowedly missionised area’ (1932: xii) to take photographs (see Mead 1972: 177-78). Dur-

ing his Tewara research, Fortune quickly acquired a good knowledge

of the language ‘by contagion’ (1932: xi).

Sorcerers of Dobu is a forcefully written account of the social or-

ganisation of Tewara islanders in the late 1920s." It covers many topics, with a strong focus on economics (gardening, mortuary exchanges,

kula exchange), kinship and marriage. The highlight of his ethnography, however, is what Fortune called ‘the black art’. He collected an

extraordinary amount of data on sorcery spells and techniques, despite the secrecy of this knowledge. Perhaps partly due to his preoccupation with this unsavoury topic his impression of the ‘Dobuan’ was very negative. Mead recalled that he found them ‘dour and dangerous’

and ‘passionately’ disliked them (1972: 169, 184, 199, 206-7). His experience was of an ‘individualistic and quarrelsome society’ (1932: 279).

Fortune not only contributed significantly to Massim ethnography

but according to Malinowski his monograph also demonstrated the

value of participant observation: ‘The present book may be regarded

by the Functional Method as one of its triumphs in the field’ (1932:

xviii). It appears from Fortune’s own account, however, that he was not welcome and had trouble in establishing a field site. The day of his

arrival on Tewara happened to coincide with a communal fishing trip: The first night after my landing in Tewara Island at about midday, the men came back from the palolo fishing on the reef fifteen miles away at

about 2 in the morning. They were threatening to my face. They went

away, climbed the hill, took out their spears, and debated coming to

12

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan’?

spear me. Finally they put their spears away. From the usual custom in regard to unguarded women, and from their jealousy in watching over their women, they suspected me and their women whom they had left on the island of the worst... Hostility was still active while the last remnants of bush clearing and the latest gardens were being planted — now it was believed that I was a spy and a forerunner of white intrusion and interference with native custom, such as Mission and Government

accomplish where they settle. 1932: 104]'*

After this bad start he lived alone in a deserted place by the shore for ‘six weeks or so’ (1932: 104). At first, nobody wanted to befriend him

and it was not until after the gardens had been planted and ‘famine time’ began that he was invited by an old man named Alo, his research

‘mentor’, to stay at Kubwagai hamlet (1932: 84,107,167).!” Alo and the two houseboys, Kinosi (Alo’s sister’s son) (see 1932: 24,143) and

*Inosi (Alo’s FZS) were apparently his main informants.'* Alo might well have been a ‘social deviant’ (Syme 1985: 57) since he had married

a woman of his own hamlet in spite of the strong disapproval of his

brothers (1932: 85). Fortune complained about his limited options of

working with informants other than Alo: ‘This condition of affairs in

the state of a small sized village which obtains [sic] restricts the fieldworker’s circle of informants seriously, and he can do nothing to

change

it’ (1932: 76-8, see also 1932:

153). From

my

own

Dobu

experience I suspect he was jealously guarded by Alo and his immediate

‘helpers’ as a welcome resource of tinned food and tobacco during the

hungry season. As Alo and his brothers were not on good terms, Alo

would not have enjoyed the sight of Fortune’s tobacco in his brothers’

baskets. Not only did Alo restrict Fortune’s communication with his

hamlet neighbours, it appears that Fortune was unable to work with any of the women.”

One night and one night only, the women in a body induced the men to get out, and my hut was filled with women all anxious to give information and acquire tobacco. Three or four times Kadi, Alo’s daughter, seized a chance when no men were about, to slip into my hut

and tell me gossip. [1932: 235]

Concerning the notion of witchcraft Fortune confessed his inability to

penetrate female secrets: ‘But only a woman working with women could tell what the facts are — whether they are really innocent or whether 13

Google

Dobu

they are putting up a convention counter to the men’s. Personally, I suspect the latter’ (1932: 152). Fortune’s impression of Dobuan women

was apparently formed by listening to ‘Old Trader’ and ‘Dobuan man’ in discourses that sound like ‘men’s talk’: Let now our anthropologist see his native through the Trader’s eyes.

The old, experienced, native-speaking, with-native-woman-living,

Trader knows his man better. He knows just what native is living with and having sex intercourse with his own mother, nothing being done

about it by the village concerned... The Trader is usually entirely correct,

and gets to know more than the anthropologist can about such doings.

He also discovers from a woman or women of his own how a Dobuan

woman may teach her daughter that the way to keep a man faithful is to keep him as exhausted as may be possible. [1932: 243-44] Every Dobuan man will say that a woman met alone apart is naturally an object to be picked up and carried into cover. They do not in the great majority of cases cry or tell their husbands afterwards. They rarely have to be raped. [1932: 77]°

Fortune collected his data with the imperial attitude of his time. He ‘requested’ to be informed about incidents (1932: 104), and he frankly

admits that he set some of his work ethics aside when time was short: I ascertained this in Basima. Fergusson Islanders from other parts recognized the practice immediatelyI mentioned it, but would not betray their own custom, and invariably assumed great surprise towards any Basima men near by at their not having prevented me from finding out.

They had done their best, however. I had a long and wearisome wait

amongst openly glaring and hostile mourners in a long match of patience against patience before the secret emerged. It took the better part of a day and the early evening. I may add that this is not my preferred

method, but I had only a month to spend in Basima, a time insufficient to create confidence in myself from everyone. [1932: 282]

I got the family of the sick man alone, used cajolery, and I mingled with

the cajolery some vague threats of Government and Mission getting

them for sorcery if they would disclose nothing. My time was short in their place and I had to resort to rough and ready methods. [1932: 160] At the end of the month apart there is still supposed to be no intercourse before weaning. From this tabu comes the motive for such action as a man holding his infant over the fire to die from shock, also a motive for

14

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan'? the use of abortifacients. I had the greatest difficulty discovering that

this tabu was observed. Those I questioned were so utterly prudish that

they declined to discuss the matter. At least I got two or three ashamed admissions that the case was so. [1932: 246]

{Killing by sorcery] is not referred to by men, except in great confidence that usually betrays itself first in a panic and is pressed home from the panic by the fieldworker. [1932: 151]

This kind of research, paying informants with tobacco and ‘pressing’ as much as necessary to get the desired information, seemed to be successful.?! The secret knowledge that Fortune was given is very similar

to the (limited) information that I obtained in this matter.” Apart from spelling differences (like /olas instead of loulasa [1932: 144]) and other

minor flaws” (for example, lo-bagula should read lomasula (1932: 139]), Fortune’s data were confirmed by some old men on Dobu, who

told me that although they did not know these particular methods of sorcery they could well imagine that they were authentic. Some men also raised the question whether Fortune had been given complete spells or whether some important details were left out, or altered, in order to

preserve the secret in spite of the pressure he put on his informants. Yet, as they remarked, the secret nature of this kind of knowledge was protected by the way Fortune published the data, a device they approved of. Fortune, however, was not too concerned about this matter:

Free use of their names such as I make here would be felt by the Dobuan

magicians as worse than the greatest blasphemy would be to Christian believers... Our own term ‘blasphemy’ does not comprehend the

magnitude of the offence. [1932: 100]

Fortune gives normative accounts of affinal exchanges (marriage and

mortuary exchanges) and of the kula exchange of shell valuables. His

overall explanation is that ‘the love for exchange is one of the great

characters of Melanesian culture’, a love which often lends itself to

utilitarian ends, but in the case of kula exchange is, ‘over-developed’

(1932: 207). This love sometimes takes ridiculous forms, as he shows

in an example from the Admiralty Islands: ‘Intoxicated with great love for exchange, they exchange even the water of their respective dwelling

places and carry it home for the boiling of their food’ (1932: 206). To

Fortune, not only love, but also distrust, suspicion and anger against 15

Google

Dobu anyone who rises above the average (1932: 176) are motivations for

exchange.

Fortune’s data on bwabwale exchanges do not always match mine, which could be due to difference in location (‘it might be Bwaiowa or Tewara custom’, as Dobu people said of some of Fortune’s statements).

He was largely denied experience of mortuary feasting and other events that are preferably celebrated in the ‘time of plenty’ between July and September. He admittedly did not gain access to participation and observation in gardening (1932: 104) and he must have overlooked

the difference between the ‘stony ground’ on Tewara (1963: 282) and

the rich volcanic soil on Dobu Island when he wrote that ‘certainly the Dobuan area is poor in gardens’ (1932: 193). Fortune was perhaps too

preoccupied with male sorcery to construct a comprehensive and rounded picture of the Dobu person. The limited time that he spent in the field did not allow for varied experiences and he was unable to

communicate freely with women. It seems that he participated in ‘men’s

talk’ to a degree but did not have the opportunity to test their statements in real life. The men’s competitiveness over women, objects of

wealth and secret knowledge gave him the impression of intense jealousy.25

In this society it is not possible to say that the attitudes of the social organization are created by the attitudes of the magical outlook, or that the attitudes of the magical outlook are created by the attitudes of

the social organization. It is, however, possible to show a unity of feeling throughout. Jealousy is the keynote to the culture. (1932: 135]

Fortune’s description of Dobu morality is vastly oversimplified: ‘good

and bad in the moral sense do not exist on Dobu’ (1932: 177). This

does not begin to approach the understanding of Dobu people that I knew. For this reason, I shall have occasion to refer to Fortune in relation to ethnographic detail throughout the book. While Fortune’s ‘Dobuan’ has a markedly dark character, Ruth Benedict’s is even darker. It is unfortunate, then, that her ‘Dobuan’ still has some currency. Benedict seized upon Dobu as an extreme ex-

ample of human moral possibilities; her ‘Dobuan’ is presented as a

showcase for inverted ethics. In contrast to Western society, where

honesty and helpfulness were virtues, she gives the impression that treachery, selfishness, and laziness are moral virtues in Dobu. 16

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan’?

‘The treacherous conflict which is the ethical ideal in Dobu is not palliated by social conventions of what constitutes legality. [1934: 169-70]

Life in Dobu fosters extreme forms of animosity and malignancy which

most societies have minimized by their institutions. Dobuan institutions,

on the other hand, exalt them to the highest degree... Suspicion and cruelty are his trusted weapons in the strife and he gives no mercy, as

he asks none. (1934: 172]

It is because of such negative images that I refrain from using the usual

term ‘the Dobuan’ in favour of ‘Dobu islander’. ‘The Dobuan’ might live anywhere in the Dobu language area, but it seems more precise to refer only to those people among whom Ilived as Dobu islanders —

that is, the people claiming to belong to the island itself. My

role as a researcher,

like Fortune’s,

derived

from

the

Malinowskian ideal of participant observation. Almost seventy years after Fortune, I entered the area with a different set of ethics, more

time, the advantage of being female, and a basic grasp of the language.”” My preparation had begun by studying Dobu language ‘for fun’ at

university in Germany, when Professor Erhard Schlesier offered a language course based on published material in the Edugaula dialect. His documentation of the neighbouring Me’udana people on Normanby Island excited my interest more than the details of grammar, but after four semesters of studies I could read Dobu fluently and understood its principles of syntax. Suffixes were stored as lists in my brain and the vocabulary I learned was limited and highly specific. I carried an image of Me’udana rather than ‘Dobuans’ through Schlesier’s seminars,

of living ‘informants and friends’ of ‘Ehada’ (as Erhard was called in Me’udana)

rather than of paranoid sorcerers.7* I knew

most of the

recent literature of the area and was well prepared in technological terms, with solar-energy to power my laptop computer and practical tips from Colin Filer’s hands-on article (1983).?”

The problem that Fortune and I both faced was that in the eyes of

our hosts we were white skinned and had money and therefore classified as ‘Westerners’ — dimdim - a category that is in some ways opposed to ‘people’ — tommota. While Fortune took advantage of this position (which in those days was inevitably linked to colonial power), I tried to undermine my hosts’ conception of what a dimdim has to be. The kind of transformation in the attitudes of the people that I (but probably not Fortune) experienced has been described by Lepowsky: 17

Google

Dobu As they became more accustomed to my presence they dropped the silent, reserved demeanor| later learned to recognize as the characteristic

response to the few times Europeans or the Papua New Guinean government officer-in-charge appeared in the settlements. Quite to the contrary, the women

were assertive and self-confident, their voices

ringing out across the ridgetop along with loud, frequent bursts of laughter. [1994: 17]

Tarrived on Dobu in July 1992 and stayed there — with two intermittent trips to Alotau and a month’s break when I went to Bali to recover my health - until January 1994, a total of sixteen months in the D’Entrecasteaux. As my research was poorly funded! was neither able to pay for research assistance nor travel as much as I would have liked.”

I lived in Losina hamlet, in Edugaula, and occasionally spent some

days in Kwakwamoiya hamlet, Mwanomwanona. Twice I travelled to

Duau (Normanby) on kula excursions with a group of Dobu people,

and four times crossed the strait to Bwaiowa (Fergusson Island) for the

same purpose, each time accompanying a single kula trader. As a guest during large mortuary feasts, 1 stayed in Gomwa (Fergusson Island) and Miadeba (Normanby Island) for a couple of days. I had to spend

two months in Esa’ala to recover from malaria and to settle personal

difficulties on Dobu by absenting myself. Of the year that I spent on

Dobu Island itself, for the first four months I was a part of a household

of three families of the same matrilineage. For the rest of the time, I

lived by myself in my own small house. Under the wings of a Dobu ‘mother’

It has been observed by anthropologists that it is often marginal individuals in a society who feel drawn to strangers, while those who

are living more normal lives prefer not to bother themselves with outsiders. I did not reflect sufficiently on this potential risk before I

established my field site. But fear of the unknown made me embrace the invitation of the very first family I met. They had been our hosts in

Losina when I visited Dobu on a

brief survey trip with my father in

July 1990, having been recommended by the friendly lady who ran the

Esa’ala guest house (she was to become my friend and guardian angel,

saving my life when I was stricken with falciparum malaria). Her eldest sister on Dobu was to become my principal ‘mother’. Another seven 18

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan’?

sisters also assumed the role of ‘mothers’ to me, while their children

became my ‘siblings’. At first, however, only three ‘mothers’ (whom I

called ‘auntie’ or sinagu [my mother]) and their brother (a university graduate and diplomat) appeared on my horizon, though it was only

my principal ‘mother’ who tried to control me in the same assertive

way that she ruled her household and all matters of hamlet life.

My house was not quite finished when I arrived to begin my field-

work. The project had grown out of all proportion: it was now to become a semi-permanent building, with timber boards and an iron

roof, on massive posts, under construction by a professional carpenter

and his two adolescent helpers. As the site of the new house was on

disputed land, progress was delayed by formal mediation. I had requested a humble hut made from bush material, but did not dare com-

plain about the mansion being built for me, though the cost escalated

as time went by. After three months of expensive trips across the straits

to Esa’ala to get drinking water I was financially drained and began to resist. Meanwhile I lived in a tiny hut that was intended as a trade store, spent huge amounts for the construction of the new house, eve-

ryday (dimdim style) cooking,*' and petrol for the family’s dinghy. In the end, I never slept even one night under my own roof. The house into which I had poured so much money, work and anxiety, was possessed by my ‘mother’.

I realised thatI was scarcely meeting people other than those belong-

ing to my adoptive family as I was usually discouraged from leaving

their section of the hamlet. The first of a series of verbal fights with her

began when I demanded more independence. After failed attempts at

reconciliation from my side she formally told packed some things and took refuge in Esa’ala, was a German volunteer who lent me a room to Losina after Christmas for our large sagali

me to where in his feast,

leave her house. I fortunately there house. I returned but I did not live

with my ‘mother’ anymore. She had declared that she had to work for

the Lord (engaging in local fellowship and ekelesia work) and would not have any time to ‘work’ for me. I was not aware then of the con-

cept of ‘work’ as a trope for ‘care’, and replied that she had never done much work for me at all. This was literally true, as I fetched my own water, did my laundry, helped a bit in the household, and financed all

the expensive, dimdim groceries as a bonus. We exchanged a barrage

of angry accusations andI tried to avoid her for the rest of my stay.

19

Google

Dobu

These conflicts were sometimes quite traumatic and I kept thinking that it must be I who enraged her. While everybody else confirmed

that my behaviour was not intolerable and that they wanted me to stay in Losina, it took me some time to realise that I was perceived as a

gomagwaine, the term for adolescent girls. As such, my life had to be controlled by an older woman and I had to work hard without a word of praise, as obediently as possible. How can anyone do independent research under such conditions? In Gnecchi-Ruscone’s words, ‘unmar-

ried and childless, I straddled uncomfortably the boundary between

girlhood and womanhood’ (1991: 13); in my own case, perhaps I was

closer to girlhood than to womanhood because my skills of reading and writing did not impress them. My ‘father’ had been a teacher and

had just retired to end his life in his wife’s hamlet and all family mem-

bers were quite fluent readers and writers. After having lived independently in Germany for more than ten

years, I was shocked when I was ordered around. ‘You stay and have tea first’ (when the mail in Esa’ala was due). “You stay and look after

the house’ (when they went to the gardens). ‘You stay and look after Andrew (four years)’ (when they went for a walk). For the first three

months I obeyed such instructions, as my observation of family life indicated that any challenge to my ‘mother’s’ dominance spelled trou-

ble. My indignant protest could have ended my whole project and it

took a long time to establish at least overtly friendly (but cautious)

relations with her.

It is difficult to reflect on personal aspects of the fieldwork experi-

ence without either glorifying it or whining about its hardships. In retrospect, I feel like doing both at the same time, yet my diaries show that usually I was in a pragmatic, relaxed mood that was reasonably

compatible with the ethically correct restraint on Dobu. Yet my capacity to handle problems with a stoic suppression of emotion was sometimes wanting, and my attempts to formally apologise never really won

over my ‘mother’. As I shifted my accommodation within Losina four

times, I was able to observe other households with the intimacy of a

family member. To some extent the fraught situation had positive ef-

fects, because as our struggle (hers for domination, mine for independence) continued, some men and women who had knowledge pertaining to my areas of interest took pity on me and helped me to finish my

work. They worried that I would fail to achieve an understanding of

20

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan’?

the ‘real Dobu’ — as they put it- by observing only my family’s way of life. Doing fieldwork alone I had to rely completely on Dobu people for

company and comfort, but I never felt sad for too long because my friends would try to cheer me up. In some ways the persistent conflict

with my ‘mother’ also created an emotional environment similar to

theirs; they saw my reactions and could interpret them according to their own experiences in similar situations. Equally, by presenting myself

as a person with troublesome relationships within the household, I occasionally sought advice from impartial elders, semi-involved ‘sisters’ and complete outsiders (preferably church ministers, as they would

not gossip). The ‘proper way of behaviour’, it was explained to me, makes it possible to live in harmony, and many people made an effort

to teach me how to do things ‘properly’. I know they did it out of sympathy for my being alone and far from home, and tried to integrate me by enculturating me. By and by I was taught how to speak, sit and behave ‘properly’. It

took me about six months to be at ease with everyday interaction in terms of language and rules of politeness. Then I began to learn how to circumvent rules, for example, how to avoid sharing my sugar with everybody. After about nine months, I learned how to make jokes with

a risqué undertone, as when relating shellfish to female genitalia:

Coming back from the market with some shells for lunch I met Diwili

who was standing next to her house. She called me: ‘E, peleni (friend), what did you get at the market?’ I replied: ‘Your namesake!’ We both

laughed loudly. I was being a bit naughty, Diwili said smiling. I tried the same reply on Julie and she found it very funny, too.>” [Field Notes}

After I had liberated myself by creating my own household, it was possible to talk to men and women of all ages. Compared to Fortune’s,

my range of informants was much wider, including individuals from

the hamlet clusters on Dobu but especially from Edugaula, Mwanomwanona and Enaia.** I spent much time sitting, chewing betel nut, and talking, just as they did, postponing my writing of field notes

when visitors came in the evening and writing up in the mornings instead, after people had gone to the gardens. This socialising in the evenings formed the basis of my understanding and provided an

advanced language course. By the end of my first year, I was fluent 21

Google

Dobu

enough in Dobu to speak it in my dreams. Sitting around, chewing

betel and chatting in Dobu contributed to the consolidation of

friendships and gradually weakened people’s inhibitions towards me

as a dimdim. Much of what I learned was given to me as tokens of

friendship, to help me ‘write a book on Dobu life’. Children gave me much emotional support when they came to visit, sometimes helping me in my domestic work. We shared a lot of cakes,

popcorn and fun. Chatting with them revealed details that their par-

ents did not think important enough to tell me - or did not want me to know. Often their parents tried to chase them away from me, but after an initial phase of intrusive curiosity about my physical body (once

some kids sneaked onto the off-shore toilet to see what my faeces looked

like), my young companions entertained me with stories they believed

would be of interest to me:

Mummy said there was a black cloud over Dobu. They have seen it in Port Moresby and shown it on television. Last week or so. It is SATAN.

who is looking down on Dobu to find new followers. Did you know

that?

Yesterday I did not go to the bush. Mummy did not want to go because of her eye. (Me: Her eye?) — Yes, Papa came back from Esa’ala in the evening and he was sipak [drunk], got cross and hit her. They had a

fight. [Field Notes]

Two

people

died in my

hamlet while I was there. The

direct

confrontation with death, and the way it was dealt with, left a strong

impression on me. I was close enough to the people to be expected to

participate in the feasts. These events contributed greatly to my

understanding of the way life is constructed and enacted in Dobu. By

sharing their feelings of grief, exhaustion, stress and hunger as well as

happiness, well-being, relaxation, and repletion (all of which make

mortuary feasting and kula exchange such powerful experiences) I often

found myself in perfect empathy. The picturesque view across the Dobu Strait never ceased to impress me with its tropical beauty. The climate, however, frequently

made me sick with malaria or swollen limbs from tropical ulcers. I had

to cope with rats, biting insects, a bad water supply and enervating humid heat. Minor earthquakes and three cyclones scared me less then

they did my family back home when they learned about them several weeks later. 22

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan’?

I was impressed by the self-assured and relaxed presence of the women from Dobu. We spent a lot of time together and I came to understand much of my own cultural background through being with them. Dobu women are strong and self-sufficient; they can live with-

out husbands as long as there are a few male relatives to help them

occasionally. Indeed, when I presented my small son on my last visit,

the overall opinion was: ‘It is good that you have a son, so you don’t

need to worry about a husband so much. Not long, and he can help you [with the male tasks of everyday life]’.

Initially I was alarmed by the idea - frequently iterated — that there

were dangerous (‘jealous’) witches roaming around my house at night. But I persuaded myself that they would not threaten me, and the idea ceased to bother me. The secret knowledge of lethal sorcery that For-

tune described is restricted to only a few men today. Killing is usually

done by female witches. The fear of witches is very marked and my work was restricted in several ways because of it. I could not visit certain people, befriend certain women, go out at night without being summoned by my family and formally told that I was not allowed to

do so. These aspects of Dobu life were not easy to accept, and while I became unavoidably involved in village politics, | understood the im-

portance of gossip and of the need to ‘keep smiling’. My departure in January 1994 was somewhat hasty. In fact I spent the last three days with one of the other matrilineages of the hamlet because the conflict

with my ‘mother’ had reached another peak and people were worried

about my health. I returned to Dobu, gloriously, in July 1997, with my two-year old son, and stayed for about six weeks to discuss and supplement an earlier draft of this monograph. This time I lived on the mission station, Buduagula, with a schoolteacher’s family who also provided a parttime babysitter. Going through my chapters, Dobu people suggested I

remove the letter ‘r’ in Dobu orthography as it ‘sounded wrong’ to them. They accepted my decision to separate personal pronouns from verbs, because I do not think that they are prefixes. I learned the details of Kaibado’s death and grieved anew for my fatherly friend. My detachment from my former hamlet, Losina, was

only formal, and when a man from Losina passed away, I was naturally asked to participate, to document the event (I took video and stills), and to fulfil my role as a (somewhat different) village ‘owner’. 23

Google

Dobu

This was expressed by my ‘sister’, Juke, when she called me from the platform of the dugumalala distribution: ‘Losina people, our (excl.) Westerner, your gift!’).

Later, when my son fell sick, my female friends (‘true sisters’) offered support, using their secret bush remedies in the attempt to lower

the fever and explaining in their own terms what they believed to be

the reason for his sickness. Unfortunately, the fever happened to be

falciparum malaria and, again, | had to leave the island in haste.

In early 1998, a telephone was installed in the school on Dobu

Island. Its number: (+) 6435020 (wait for two beeps) 22.

Notes 1 Inthe Massim area, Dobu also is an indigenous trope for ‘highly prestigious kula’ (see Munn 1986: 159); see also Beran (1996: 50) and Campbell (1978)

for distinct carving styles. See also Barker (1990); Douglas (1997, 1998); Eves (1996); Langmore (1989); Syme (1985); Wetherell (1977); Young (1977b, 1980, 1989, 1991, 1997) for work on Dobu missionisation. Bromilow published some articles (1909, 1910, 1912, 1914) and an autobiographical memoir (1929). Historical sources include missionaries’ letters and diaries (Arnold 192326; Bromilow 1891-92, 1904a; Brown 1890-91; Fellows 1893-1900; Lloyd 1898-1901; Tinney 1892-1902; Walker 1892-93). Diaries of ‘missionary

2

sisters’ (Benjamin 1907, Billing 1930) and George Brown’s autobiography (1908) have been published.

3

In 1892 a mission was opened on Panaeati, followed by Tubetube and Kiriwina in 1893 and Bwaidoga in 1899. See Rundle (1941: 8).

4

David Duigu: United Church History Papua Islands Region. Copy of

material of the Bible School in Bwaruada, Normanby Island, MS as copied

from Ms Jennivier Sailon, Dobu Island, a former student at Bwaruada. The trope of ‘light’ versus ‘darkness’ has been discussed by Young (1980: 89f). 5

6 7 8

9

On my last visit to Dobu in 1997, I was told that this sandy peninsula had

formerly been a place for cleaning ancestors’ skulls.

See also Loria (1896) for a similar description by the first anthropologist to visit Dobu. Buki Tapwaroro (1963: 210), translation by Simioni Busia (Tune: ‘Higher

ground’),

The name Edugaula has been spelled inconsistently in the literature. I follow the Lithgows.

Bible translation by Bromilow (1926); the Wesleyan Hymn book (Buki Tapwaroro 1963); New Testament translated by David Lithgow (1985).

24

Google

What is a ‘Dobuan’? For linguistic work on Dobu see Arnold (1926, 1931); Bromilow 1904b; Cochran (1978); Dixon (n.d.); Grant (1953); Daphne Lithgow (1974, 1977,

1984); David Lithgow (1975, 1976a, 1976b, 1978, 1989, 1992), Lithgow and Staalsen (1965); Ray (1907, 1938). Parts of the New Testament were several times translated by various missionaries (see Dixon 1941: 10). 10 Bromilow’s nickname Saragigi (sara — teeth, gigi - to take out) refers to his false teeth. Today, he is still sometimes referred to by this nickname but

more often as ‘Doctor Bromilow’ (Dokta Blomlo, as Young put it

phonetically 1997: 101). According to Roheim, Bromilow used his denture

for preaching: ‘He put an end to the cannibal raids by pulling his denture out and telling his awe-struck audience, “this is what will happen to your

teeth if you don’t stop eating people” (1954: 495).

11 David Lithgow observed that Dobu is a ‘language of higher prestige’ for Fergusson and Normanby islanders (1992: 36). 12 See, for example, Beledami (1974); Billy (1974); Coombs (1948); Edoni (1989); Fink (1964); Franklyn (1936). 13 See also Geertz (1973: 49); Kelly (1968); Ravanou (1997); Young (1991b). 14 Due to his short stay on Dobu, Fortune’s data on totemic identification of hamlets are correct for the Edugaula area but incomplete for the rest of the island (1932: 32-4). 15 Because I agree with Chowning’s critique of the second, 1963, edition of Sorcerers (1964: 456), I mainly refer to the 1932 edition. 16 The palolo worms appear only once a year at full moon on coral cliffs and

beaches and are collected in masses. The worms are called damasi in Dobu language.

17 It is unclear to whom Fortune referred when mentioning ‘Maropa, my sorcerer lad’ in a letter to Benedict (Mead 1966: 312-13).

18

In 1989 Digim’Rina and Young attempted to trace Fortune’s research site

on Tewara Island and were led to an abandoned hamlet on the hill, called

Abigigita or Tanobwela, by their local guides (Digim’Rina 1995: 81).

19 Elsewhere, too, he appears to have had low expectations of women as informants. According to Margaret Mead, his first wife, Fortune left what

were for him the ‘least interesting’ topics of study to her when they worked in Mundugumor. ‘Reo decided that this time he would do the culture and

that I could do the language, the children and the technology... Reo collected

endless accounts of battles about women’ (1972: 204).

20 In contrast, Macintyre reports from Tubetube that people were sceptical about rape as a form of assault on women (1987: 212-13). 21 See also Mead for accounts of Fortune’s field ethics and methodology while researching with her (1972: 171, 205).

25

Google

Dobu

221 did not see any evidence of divination, which, according to Fortune ‘is practiced by everyone’ (1932: 155). 23

Other incorrect statements are, to give a few examples, that ‘rain makers

are female’ (1932: 138, 213), and that ‘every disease is held to be caused by a tabu’ (1932: 138). Diseases can also be caused by other forms of sorcery.

24 For example, sago is not used on Dobu Island as there are very few sago

palms.

25 I prefer to use the word ‘envy’ because of its broader meaning. When Dobu

people speak English they use the word ‘jealousy’, but this is due to their limited vocabulary: the word envy is not known or used.

26 Mead’s daughter characterised Fortune as ‘puritanically jealous’ (Bateson 1984: 129).

27 Coincidentally, the name Tewara had been familiar to me since early childhood, when Rudyard Kipling’s The first letter was my favourite bedtime

story. In this story, a little girl tries to overcome the difficulty of

communication with a stranger from a faraway place called Tewara (1902:

131-40). 28 See Schlesier (1963, 1964, 1965, 1967, 1970, 1982, 1983). 29

For bibliographies of the Dobu and Duau region, see Freeman (1969); Glass

(1991); Thune (1975). Linguistic works of the Summer

Institute of

Linguistics have been compiled by Patrick (1981). 30 I received some financial support from the Draeger Stiftung in Germany

but the bulk of my funds came from my extended family, added to my own

savings.

31 Breakfast: fried flour balls, tinned meat, spaghetti or beans, Milo, coffee, or milk tea. Lunch: yams with noodle sauce, or rice and tinned fish, scones,

and tea. Dinner: yams and other vegetables with bully beef, noodles, vegetables, soup, tea.

32 See Young for an analysis of obscene jokes in Kalauna (1977a). 33

According to Golde,

female researchers often

have better access to

informants of both sexes if they can liberate themselves from patronage (1970: 9).

26

Google

Chapter 2

THE Dosu CoNcEPT OF THE PERSON Name of the gift: ‘work’ (paisewa)

This chapter explores the Dobu idea of the person (tomota). From a Dobu perspective, persons are individually manifested by their bodies in terms of gender and age. Based on linguistic evidence, I argue that the ‘inside’ of a person is composed of individually shaped dispositions or character traits, ale-, intellect (‘mind’) and emotions (feelings),

ate- and nua-. The body is perceived as moving through changing states of consciousness, or ‘gears’ of activity, such as sleeping (‘eno), resting (ewai’ata) and, most importantly,

‘working’

physical level, persons are conceptualised

(paisewa). On a meta-

as having a ‘spirit’

(yaluyaluwa-) and a shadow (a- ma’amayau) that are. essential for

mental and physical health for as long as the person is alive. When interacting, people consciously attempt to display only those aspects

of their ‘inside’ that are commensurate with ethical standards in order

to be assessed as ‘good’ and to avoid social sanctions. The head is

perceived as the centre of perception, communication and (filtered)

expression of the ‘inside’, aspects of the individual person that are re-

flected in the symbolic importance of skulls and the metaphorical use of terms that point towards individual capacities, especially knowl-

edge and status. Bodily fluids, in contrast, are perceived in a relational

manner. Mother’s milk is transmitted matrilineally, and blood is con-

ceptualised as a product of nurturing.

On the ‘outside’, a person’s physical beauty and health appear as a

result of his or her position in society, based on notions of conduct and

visible on the skin. The appearance of the physical body, therefore, is a result of innate and relational aspects of an individual, partly originating in maternal inheritance (her ‘seed’, and her blood), and partly cre-

ated by interaction with others. The idea of sickness as a social sanction for ‘bad conduct’ implies

that individuals attempt to follow ethical rules for the sake of their personal health and well-being. In order to be assessed as ‘good’, Dobu persons are expected to ‘work’ by ‘helping’ their ‘relatives’, thereby 27

Google

Dobu

giving evidence of their social skills and physical adroitness. The concept of ‘work’ comprises not only physical labour but also gift giving, especially when it involves objects of high value. This perspective views ‘work’ as a social value; in fact, according to a Dobu proverb, everything depends on ‘work’ (literally ‘work sets the law’, paisewa i loiloina).

As a major form of gift in Dobu

society, ‘work’ links persons,

matrilineages and hamlets and enables individuals to have access to various resources. The significance of practice becomes obvious when

‘work’ is literally understood to exhaust a person’s strength by sweat-

ing in the sun and suffering despite the option of resting at home in the

shade with a betel nut and a cigarette. The way a person ‘works’, therefore, gives evidence of his or her character as ‘hardworking’ or ‘lazy’.

As such, the gift of ‘work’ is directly linked to valued personal quali-

ties as well as to notions of gender and age. The social importance of

‘work’ will appear as a dominant argument throughout the book. ‘Work’ is the domain in which persons commit themselves, endure

internal struggles of loyalty and morality, and thereby project them-

selves as agents of their own interests. Dimensions of personhood in Dobu

On Dobu there are different ways of referring to persons. The generic

term tomota is gender neutral, encompassing not only human beings

but also supernatural beings and yams.' While tomota is often used to

refer to human beings in general, Dobu language also allows more

precise reference to human identity in terms of place of origin. The prefix me- (human being) with place of origin as a qualifier (Mebuyowa, a person from Buyowa) is often used when referring to a group of

people. If particular individuals are referred to, this may be done by

using the gender term (waine for woman, tai for man) with the suffix -

na (sing.) or -di (pl.) in addition to the place name: Dobu wainena, this woman from Dobu, Waluma wainedi, these women from Waluma.

The latter construction can be turned around so that ‘a woman from Dobu’ becomes waine Dobu(na), a rhetorical way of stressing a person’s place of origin. Humans are divided into totemic clans and matrilineages, relating

them to the land of their ancestors. Similarly, yams are divided into two types (variations) that are subdivided into types of seeds (cultivars). 28

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

As each matrilineage owns the seeds (‘ua) of only a few yam types,

the relation between yam ‘persons’ and land is parallel to that of human ‘persons’. ‘Supernatural beings’, such as tonitonibwa’a (the red inhabitants and ‘owners’ of the ground) and tokwatokwa (the dwarfs

that ‘own’ the surface, live in big trees and control wells), are subdi-

vided according to the land that they live on. Taumudumudulele (said

to reside on nearby Oaiobe Island) is ‘like a human’ person but with distinctly superior knowledge of magic power.

The semantic frame of the term tomota appears to be characterised

by individual predispositions and the ability to selectively display one’s

‘inside’ in accord with an ethical code. This implies that tomotai not only experience but partly control their inner states of consciousness

such as dreams, thoughts and emotions. This consciousness distinguishes tomota from animals, yobai. In myths, pigs and dugongs were turned into animals when their mythical ancestor behaved ‘like an ani-

mal’ by refusing to follow the ethical rules.

The word tomota is the source of the prefix to- that is used to

denote personhood in particular contexts: a slain enemy is referred to

as to’esilai (person-killed), a dead person is to’mwamwasa

(person-

dead). Expressions using the prefix to- sometimes refer directly to

gendered activities of exchange, others do not. The woman who bundles the yams that are counted and piled up in her yam house in preparation for a mortuary feast is called tolobwagila (person-make-bundle);

aman building a house can be referred to as to’abi’anua (person-build-

house). The roles of persons during mortuary feasts are indicated in

the same manner: to’ebwabwale (person-make-bwabwale), to’etabutabu- (person-forbidden-to-eat), to’ai (person-eat), todedoi (person-cry), topaisewa (person-work), tosa’u kodo (person-put-

basket), toloina (person-ruling), and to’une (person-gift-giving). These

terms are further explained in my last chapter. The prefix to- is also used in relation to other activities. The owner of a yam house, generally a woman, is called to’abi’uma (person-build-

seeds), that is, the person who builds up (‘abi) the yam seeds (‘uma). A

healer is called to’oba (person-healing) and a gardener is tobagula (person-garden). This construction puts emphasis on the activity a person

is involved in, like the leadership of a kula canoe, tosana waga (person-put-canoe). It is also a euphemism to avoid the use of a personal

name for reasons of piety and respect, as in to’ala (person-carry) for a 29

Google

Dobu

deceased father; which alludes to one who had lovingly carried the speaker as a baby. A dead mother, on the other hand, is referred to as

agu susu (my breasts), alluding to the intimate nurturing relationship between mother and child. A deceased relative whose name cannot be mentioned might be referred to as tomialugu (person-rest-inside-thehouse), based on the fact that he remained inside the house when he

was very sick ‘before he died’. The general term for those who are in no way related and to whom one has no exchange ties is to’umala.

Interestingly, the dugong is called tomadawa (person-kula-canoe-fromTubetube-area), apparently referring to its large size and human-like

features; but note that no activity is associated with the prefix to which

in this case is purely descriptive.” The facultative plural of tomota is tomotai. This word is used as a

classifying attribute in contrast with ‘Western’ (dimdim), thereby distinguishing clay pots (‘ule tomotai) from aluminium pots (e’ule dimdim), outrigger canoes (waga tomotai) from dinghies (waga dimdim), locally caused sicknesses (le’oasa tomotai, or asa le’oasina, hamlet-itssickness) from modern sicknesses (le’oasa dimdim), hence between ‘real’ persons (tomotai) and ‘Westerners’ (dimdim). The distinction between

tomotai and dimdim is also mirrored in origin myths concerning the brothers Tauwau (a dimdim) and Kasabwaibwaileta (a tomota). Tauwau and Kasabwaibwaileta built the first boats. The former constructed an outrigger canoe (waga or kewe’u) and the latter a dinghy. At night, Tauwau stole the dinghy and left for Australia while Kasabwaibwaileta had to remain in the village and use the canoe. This

is why we have canoes and dimdims have motor boats.

The distinction was also implicit in a statement uttered by sympathetic neighbours after a quarrel between myself and my ‘mother’: ‘She does

not treat you well’, as if a dimdim was not a person (tomota)!? Dimdim can be referred to as tomota, too, as the quote shows, if they share the

world of Dobu.

‘Work’ as a personal gift In front of my house stood a pomelo tree and my desire to eat its fruits grew stronger each day I watched them maturing. Every time a fruit

30

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

ripened I informed the children that 1 wanted to eat it myself, but shortly

before it was fully ripe somebody took it and left me disappointed.

When I complained, Kaibado explained: ‘The fruits are yours because you weed the ground around the base of the tree. You are an “owner”

of Losina because you have “worked” at the sagali feast. You are a

dimdim but your “work” makes you become like us. That is what we

call “paisewai loiloina” (work sets the rule). That is our custom.’ [Field

Notes}

Exchange is regarded as ‘work’ in Dobu, comprising labour, produc-

tion, distribution and sometimes consumption. To ‘work’ for someone

in terms of labour includes dragging heavy bundles of firewood from

the bush to the hamlet, standing inside the smoke when preparing a pot for cooking, going fishing on a cold night when feeling tired, par-

ticipating in a kula voyage, building a house or weeding a yam garden,

staying up all night to sing at a feast — in short, performing tiring

activities for other than one’s own immediate benefit or pleasure.

The spiky edges of the sago leaves that we were preparing for the roof

of Jack’s house stung my hands. I complained to my friend Lele. She

replied: ‘Yes, you have thorns in your hand, me too. But we must show it, because it would be like complaining. When we work someone, we tell ourselves to just do it and stay quiet. Otherwise might say that we are lazy. It is a hard life here on Dobu, unlike dimdims who have machines for everything. Maybe we are tired,

not for they you feel

pain or anger, but still we work for others so that they can see we are good people.’ [Field Notes]

This example shows that the way a person ‘works’ is evidence of his or

her strength of character, especially in terms of self-discipline. It is only to be expected that labour drains one’s energy if done with the

appropriate vigour; therefore ‘workers’ have to be served cooked food and given drugs (betel nuts and tobacco) when they have completed

their task. This gift, called miaula, is an immediate compensation for their loss of strength, so they can ‘regain their breath’ (lo’eyawasina) and ‘become hard’ again (lo’epa’ala). These work ethics may have been the reason why Dobu men were known to be among ‘the best workmen in Papua’ (see Young 1983c).

Individuals who are exceptionally ‘hardworking’ are expected to 31

Google

Dobu

become renowned, their physical and moral strength transforming into

general potency (a- waiwai). The list below gives the titles and qualifications of individual achievement. For a man, this power is called

gilasalasa, meaning that he can easily break everything he touches. For a woman, it is expressed as ‘her cooking fire never burns down’, mean-

ing that her ‘work’ of yam gardening and managing the yam seeds enables her to feed as many people as she wishes.*

Table 1: Gender specific attainment of renown Alawata (wealthy, ‘good’ woman) good at managing yams

good at planting yams looking after children

looking after visitors

looking after ‘une valuables

calling people for cooked food

to’abi’uma (person-to build-yam seeds) todauna (person-to-plant-yams) to’ita’ita (person-looking-after) tomata’owaga’owaga (person-eyeguest-guest) to’une (person-shells-and-pigs) to’lobwaobwao (person-call- out), or to’ebway’ebwaya (person-giving)

Tai esa’esa (wealthy, ‘good’ man) good gardener good fisherman good kula trader good canoe-builder

good house-builder good gardener

good net-fisherman good sorcerer (pre-Christian) good garden magician (pre-Christian)

32

Google

togiyagiyaweta (person-touch-break) to’anidoga (person-eat-bailer) to’eyalasi (person-eat-south-easterlywind)

totala waga (person-cut-canoe)

to’abi anua (person-build-house)

togiyakwala,(person-make-secondary-

garden), or to’epaima udi (person-tiebananas) tosaisaila gomana (person-make net) tobalau (person-sorcery) to’obwala (person-yam-magic)

The Dobu Concept of the Person

The semantic field of paisewa includes just about everything that is not

purely pleasurable, such as chatting with friends, resting, eating, sleeping, or visiting. Subsistence activities which satisfy the immediate needs of consumption of one’s own household are not usually termed ‘work’ but rather referred to by particular expressions such as ‘I go fishing’, ‘I come from the garden’ or ‘I am preparing dinner’. The fine distinction between ‘work’ and everyday activities like fishing in the afternoon or peeling yams for dinner seems to be related to the physical or mental strain that is caused when doing it, requiring a person to exercise self-discipline. It is, for example, ‘hard work’ for a

mother to look after her baby. She demands acknowledgement of this

as soon as the child is able to help her, so that by and by a relation of

co-workers is created, and later reversed, when

the strength of the

mother begins to fail and the child takes over the major part of her

work. This form of generalised reciprocal exchange is often explained

in terms of ‘respect’, as the morally correct way to compensate a caregiver for the inconvenience by ‘working’ in return. ‘Work’ often thus becomes a moral duty, an expression of love and gratitude, as when

caring for frail relatives or expressing grief by mourning the death of a paternal or affinal relative. Individuals who fail to conduct themselves appropriately in these contexts are branded as ‘disrespectful’.

The social value of ‘work’ is based on the awareness that it in-

volves voluntary discomfort, sweating, fatigue and mental discipline. Implicit is that an individual may always choose to stay at home, either pretending to be sick, or to have some other job to do, and to

some people the option of being talked about as ‘lazy’ is preferable to getting involved in too much ‘work’ (adolescent males especially work very little). While it is often possible to avoid everyday gift giving and

communal work such as yam planting and church activities (or at least, to participate as little as possible), persistent avoidance is sanctioned in the long-term loss of status that affects one’s inheritance and authority. Persons who are branded as ‘lazy’ cannot develop a

reliable

network of support, and the chances are that they will find little sym-

pathy and help in case of need. As I have said, persons are defined by their ability to exercise selfdiscipline and act according to ethical rules. They have to suppress

some of their dispositions, thoughts and feelings in favour of those that conform to the general concept of the ‘good person’ as ‘respectful’ 33

Google

Dobu

and able to ‘work’ without complaint or loss of stamina. This raises

the question of how these individual qualities are conceptualised within the physical body.

‘On the inside’: notions of individuality Thoughts and emotions, perceptions, dreams, character traits or dis-

positions, are issues of consciousness and personal experiences that are difficult to assess. In linguistic terms, a person’s thoughts and feelings are related to located and unlocated parts within the body. Differ-

ent states of consciousness are explained by the capacity of a person’s ‘spirit’ (yaluyaluwa-) to perceive, think and feel even when temporar-

ily separated from its physical body.’ I collected more than seventy

expressions that refer to emotional states. It is interesting that many of

these words are collocations, the first half formed by a term for a body

part and the second half offering some sort of qualification of this body part. The body parts commonly used are the head (deba-), the eyes (mata-), the back (gwau-), and inner organs (sola-), such as the

liver (ate-), and the abdomen (gamwa-).6

The word for ‘character, personality’ (ale-) was translated by Fortune as ‘root’: ‘the root of laughter they’ (1932: 250). He did not pro-

vide the Dobu phrase, which was almost certainly ‘edagi aled?’ (literally ‘laughter-root-they’) and which I would prefer to translate as ‘they are basically silly’. The word ale- refers to character traits as well as to basic reasoning (‘this is so because ...’). A child that does not listen to

advice is described as having a ‘hard head’ as a disposition or ‘basis’: gwama nina deba pa’ala alena (literally ‘child-this-head-hard-its-root’).

Similarly, natural reasoning is ‘based on’ something, as in the phrase ‘betel nuts are rare at this time of the year because of the seasons’: magi Betel nut

ana its

ala’aa shortage

alena because

magi betelnut

ma’ana_ withits

tuta. time.

In its most concrete sense, ale- is the term for the base of a tree, as in ‘I

will meet you under the Pomelo tree’:

ta we (incl.)

itayo see you

34

Google

hamakuku pomelo tree

alena. its base.

The Dobu Concept of the Person

These examples show that the concept of character (ale-) refers to spe-

cific types of personalities, explaining typical behaviour or attitudes of individuals as their ‘roots’.” As a noun, ale refers to the ‘name’ or ‘fame’ of a person (ina ale bobo’ana literally means ‘his/her name good’).

The words for ‘mind, thought, desire’ (nua-) and for ‘feeling/com-

passion’ (ate-, literally ‘liver’) describe a rather amorphous structure ‘inside’ the body that is the seat of emotional states, memory and

intellect. E. Schieffelin points out the inherent problem of translation

and classification:

‘It seems doubtful, for example, that terms for

emotions or feelings can readily be mapped onto a set of discrete and unambiguous

internal states’ (1985: 170).* Edoni, a fluent (but not

native) Dobu speaker, analysed the metaphorical use of words for body parts in relation to inner states, objects, animals, actions of the body, personality and character, and spatial and abstract qualities (1989). In relation to inner states she claims that no distinction between intellect

and emotions can be made on the basis of words:

[I]t is difficult to distinguish the meanings dividing the areas of emotions,

the intellect, the spirit, the physical properties of man and his characteristics. It would appear therefore that because these meanings are so intertwined with the simple names of the physical areas of the body that the Dobuan sees all the meanings as being an integral part of

his whole self. [1989: 25]

My own informants were equally unable to locate emotions and thought

within particular areas of the body as, for example, the ‘seat’ of memory (which Fortune claimed to be the stomach, 1932: 149), although they assumed that the brain had always been held to be the ‘seat’ of thought and memory

(similar to the concept of ‘mind’, nuwo, in Sabarl [see

Battaglia 1990: 39]). While Dobu speakers and the Dobu language versions of the Bible translate ate- as ‘heart’ into English, the heart is

actually named nuamagi.? When Dobu speakers use ate- to describe

emotions, they form collocations such as ‘my liver hurts’ for sadness,

‘my liver explodes’ for anger, and ‘in my liver you shall remain for-

ever’ for sentimental love. Far more numerous, however, are fixed col-

locations based on the word nua-, listed in the table below. It appears

impossible to distinguish between intellect and emotion on the basis of

the use of these terms:

35

Google

Dobu

Table 2: Collocations based on the term mua- (‘mind’) Dobu atenua’ole’ole nuato’umalina

nua’ebuni nua’etanidiega nua’i’isi

nua’i'ita

nua’ila nua’ole’ole

nua- i yowana

ruagibu nuadalele, nuatomatoma

nualoba, nuayai nuamwa’uta

nuamwau nuanua

geyanuanuapota nuasiwaloa nuatue nuamwataya nuaseyana

Literally

‘heart’-‘mind’- pity ‘mind’-bad

‘mind’-to uproot-like-a-tree

‘mind’-from-above

‘mind?-to-care

‘mind’-to look-after ‘mind’-to return ‘mind’-to-build-a-fire

compassion

angry, upset repent

hypocrisy

to remember to care for, to feel responsible

to think about the past

pity, mercy

‘mind’-is-wandering

wondering, amazement,

‘mind’-blind ‘mind’-bitter ‘mind’-swallow

to be bitter/sour minded,

‘mind’-to find, ‘mind’-hot ‘mind’-to-descend ‘mind’-heavy not- ‘mind’

‘mind’-clogged ‘mind’-quiet

confusion to be dissatisfied resentful to remember to be humble

sadness, disappointment, grief

to think, want, plan, wish, sexual desire

not to like, desire, wish, want

to be stupid peace of mind

‘mind’-going up, ‘mind’-high to be boastful, conceited

nualulu

‘mind’-long-like-snake (?) ‘mind’-to-move-out ‘mind’-bone

esinua nuayaina

also- ‘mind’ ‘mind’-firm

senua

English

to forget

to be generous, thoughtful to forget to be desperate, to commit suicide

to choose

to think intensely, to hope, to

wonder

Language, possession and space

Fortune claimed that the ‘possessive affix’ of extreme closeness includes:

‘a part of the speaker’s body, a state of “mind”, a trait of his character, a legitimate relative of his’ (1932: 67). This observation is correct as

36

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

long as the analysis is confined to those words that refer directly to

‘internal’ regions of the body (like ua-, ‘mind’). A closer examination of words for states of mind and character traits, however, reveals that

he simplified the issue by overlooking terms that have no overt rela-

tion to the physical body. When words for body parts are not used in collocations, states of a person’s ‘inside’ are expressed by using a form that indicates possession (deictic stem plus emotion word) rather than

embodiment (body part plus inalienable suffix). While the terms for

character traits (ale-), emotions and ‘mind’ (nua-, ate-), and ‘spirit’

(yaluyaluwa-) are indeed constructed in the same way as other parts of the body, those for ‘gut feeling/taste’ (a- lotona), ‘compatibility’ (alobwene) and shadow/spirit (i- ma’amayau) are not. To clarify these

statements, I shall first discuss the linguistic concept of possessive particles.

The relatedness of possessive particles to spatial distance has been

described by Bromilow (1904b: 149), Fortune (1932: 67), Arnold (1931:

11, 12), Lithgow (1975: 31-2, 1978: 35-8, 43-4). Although these sources offer slightly different classifications of possessives, they all agree that

in the Dobu language possessive pronouns are used to indicate the

closeness or remoteness of things relative to the person. David Lithgow

stressed that the Dobu notion of possession is quite different from its English counterpart: ‘Possession has a wider range of meaning in Dobu

than in English, so we find it much more in the Dobu language than in English’ (Lithgow 1978: 35). Along similar lines, Macintyre classified the possessive particles in Tubetube language as ‘alienable’, ‘semialienable’ and ‘inalienable’ (1995: 35). The following diagram illus-

trates the uses of possessive particles.

My informants insist that there are four different forms of possessives, while the literature has so far mentioned only three. The

subtle distiction between and must have escaped linguists’ ears. Native speakers, however, often corrected the way I pronounced the vowels (in terms of length and glottal stop), pointing out subtleties as between wuola (sea water) and ola (house post), wa ita

(you -pl.- look) and Weitaa (hamlet name). They occasionally praised

me for my (German-based) clarity of sound, explaining that native

English speakers had problems forming pure vowels and never achieved a proper pronunciation of their language.!° Sister Billing, a missionary, noted in 1895

that the Italian 37

Google

Dobu

Diagram 1: Spatial dimensions of possessive particles

Deictic stem

for objects of one’s consumption

Deictic stem

for objects that are Delctic stem used for objects and

‘animals that belong to oneself

‘spirit’ friend, indicating extreme closeness

anthropologist Loria, who visited the newly established mission, was

helpful because he was ‘especially clever in distinguishing the different

vowel sounds’ (1930: 49). This is not surprising, as the vowels in Ital-

ian are very similarly pronounced as in Dobu. The table below lists the

possessive forms in Dobu. Many inner states, like sadness, tiredness, happiness, fear, worry, or anger are metaphorically related to body parts. In these cases, the

body part is referred to with the appropriate inalienable suffix, for

example, matagu i ’eno’eno (literally ‘my-eye-is-sleeping’, I am tired).

Yet statements about emotions can be alternatively phrased by using a noun that carries the possessive form of ownership rather than one of closeness. ‘I am angry’ can be translated as ma’igu gamwasoala, which

literally means ‘with my stomach upset’. This indicates that the use of

the suffix is not related to the closeness of the state of ‘mind’ per se, but rather follows the usual grammatical form required by a body 38

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

part term (which carries this suffix automatically). In such cases, the suffix does not allude to notions of ‘nearness or distance’ (Fortune 1932: 67) in the sense of emotions being closely tied to the person, as Fortune seems to suggest (see above), although their status as colloca-

tions of body part terms plus a qualifier certainly indicates a perception of inner states in terms of general embodiment. Furthermore, some

emotions are not expressed by collocations based on body parts at all, such as envy (igu e’ipi’ipi), and ‘love’ (igu oboboma). These words do not carry the suffix , a fact that undermines Fortune’s assertion

to some degree.'!

Table 3: Possessive particles in the Dobu language Person

1st

Deictic stems

2nd

3rd

2nd

3rd

|igu imu ina ima ida imi €.g., igu susu = my own matrilineage; alienable

idi

ague

amu

adi

aagu

aamu

aana

“gue

-yo

-na-ma

= ana

1st Exc.

ama

IstInc.

ada

ami

€.g., 4gu susu = my comforting breast; semi-alienable aama

aada

aami—aadi

-da

mi

e.g., dagu susu = my breast milk that I drink; consumable

Suffixes

€.g., susugu = my own breasts; inalienable

-di

The stem nua-, to give another example, can carry the suffix as

well as possessive deictic stems. I shall briefly describe the way it may change and discuss whether semiotic differences are related to the forms. 1. nuagu i mwau (literally ‘my “mind” is heavy’ =] am sad). Nua-,

like ale- (personality, character), seems to be perceived as some-

how belonging to the body according to the possessive suffix that it carries. This grammatical form treats the stem nua- in the same way as a localised body part, for example, matagu i ’eno’eno (literally ‘my eye is sleeping’ = I am tired). Many of the words listed in Table 3 can be constructed this way, implying that the ‘mind’ seems to be an abstract concept within the

boundaries of extreme closeness although it cannot be localised within the body.

39

Google

Dobu

2.

igu nuanua oyo (literally ‘my desire is you’ = I want you). On the other hand, in the reduplicated form nuanua (synonymous

with nua-) the grammatical construction with the pronoun iindicates distance and ownership rather than closeness. This

form is used when the emphasis is on an actual activity of thinking rather than on a state of mind.

3. nuanuagu e’ai (I wish to eat). In its verbal form, unlike most

other intransitive verbs, nua- carries a possessive suffix and often the particle be (and). Arnold classifies it as expressing an

optative mood (1931: 29-30). Interestingly, only three verbs

are connected with be, all of them having an undertone of

irreality:

Sawesawenaya be It should be

thar

ya

Kapekapeana

be

Nuanwagu I wish

be wa that you

Trcould be

I

tatauya

will go

1

ya

__pilisinemi

I might run away from you (pl.)

da mai shall come here

Lwish you (pl.) would come

that_‘I——_runaway you (2. pl.)

should be able to go

Closeness as an element of relatedness is expressed by the deictic stem

a-, either in social relationships (agu to’ali, ‘my deceased father’ [liter-

ally ‘my carrier’}), or when qualifying objects (ana ita bobo’ana, ‘it

looks good’ [literally ‘its look is good’]).'? Only two emotion words

are expressed in this way. One is the word for ‘personal compatibility’,

a- lobwene, mainly used in negated form in the sense of ‘I don’t like it’ or ‘Tcannot tolerate it/have an allergy against it’ (nigeya agu lobwene). The second term, a- lotona, is used to refer to one’s ‘feeling’ in the

sense of ‘gut feeling’ as well as ‘body feeling’ in general and taste of

food:

Agu

My

Masula Vegetable

lotona

nigeya

feeling

not

nina this

ana its

bobo'ana.

good. lotona taste

_to’umalina. bad.

I don’t feel well. This food tastes bad.

The term for feeling, a- lotona (in verbal form, /otoi) is grammatically

constructed as close to, but outside of the body, as close as essential

40

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

clothes or deceased/illegitimate kin. At the same time, it is constructed as a bodily sensation, as in the example above and similarly in the phrase ana lotona ‘u da lotoi (‘now you feel it’, literally ‘its feeling you

shall taste’) to comment on someone’s well deserved punishment. Its

ambiguous position between the body and the outside world might

indicate its mediating quality between the inside and the outside, simi-

lar to other perceptions like ana ita (‘the way it looks’), ana nono (‘the way it sounds’). If this is indeed the case it can be stated on the basis of

linguistic analysis that this kind of feeling is perceived as a bodily perception rather than as an emotion per se (as German or English would have it). The following diagram attempts to summarise what has been said with regard to possessives and ‘emotion words’. Diagram 2: Embodiment of words for inner states

my head (debagu)

my eye (matagu)

my mouth (awagu)

i»

oT

my skin (bwalagu)

my back (gwaugu)

my Inside (solagu) my liver (ategu)

my stomach (gamwagu) unlocated:

~ my feeling (agu lotona)

= my shadow (agu ma’amayau) = my compatibility

(agu lobwene)

- my personality (alegu) my spirit (yaluyaluwagu) = my ‘mind’ (nuagu)

41

Dobu

To conclude, linguistic formulations of aspects of personhood on Dobu

differentiate between character traits (ale-) and mental and emotional states (nua-, ate-) that cannot be located within a metaphysical ‘inside’

(sola-). These dimensions of personal perception are grammatically different from words that refer to perceptions (a- ita, a- lotona, anono) and ‘individual compatibility’ (a- lobwene). My analysis has shown that possessive particles are not an entirely consistent indica-

tion of physical closeness or embodiment, as ‘emotion words’ often

carry the alienable deictic stem i-, as in igu nuanua (my thought) and

igu gamwaso’ala (my anger). In general terms, however, it appears that the ‘inside’ of a person is treated linguistically as an integral part

of the body, as an individually shaped entity." Persons have to negoti-

ate their character traits, feelings, desires and thoughts with the de-

mands of ethical rules when interacting, creating an image of their personality by the way they act (‘work’). Attempts to conceal those aspects of their ‘inside’ that do not conform to the ethics are met by

others’ assessment of their character and inner feelings (‘he really has a choleric character’). During fieldwork I overheard a friend’s comment

on an event that made him so upset that he displayed anger and disap-

pointment without the usual self-restraint. ‘Truly, my inside was out,”

he said in the mixture of Dobu and English that can often be heard among fluent speakers of English: ‘Solagu i out’. Spirit and person

Another dimension of personhood that is based on notions of individuality is the spirit (yaluyaluwa-).!5 While normally located some-

where ‘inside’, it is constructed as detachable under certain conditions,

having the full range of capacities of the body; it can move, perceive, and consciously experience inner states and react to the outside world. However, this state is only temporary and spirit and body have to be reunited after a time in order to avoid damage to the person as a whole. Body and spirit are regarded as one when the person is awake, unless the person is mentally sick (kabalea), a state that manifests a division

between body and spirit. It is during sleep, when the physical body

rests, that mentally healthy persons can experience and experiment

with states of separation between body and spirit. Dreams are classified into three distinct categories: the ordinary, 42

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

sometimes prophetic dreams during normal night sleep, and two ways of ‘leaving the physical body’ while it is asleep.4* The methods that allow the person to separate from the body are called ’enomata’ita’ita (literally ‘sleep-eyes-are-watching’) and ’enobe’s (literally ‘sleep-fall’) (see Fortune 1932: 181). They can probably be classed as states of trance, as Stephen convincingly argues in her article on altered states of consciousness in Melanesia (1979: 5ff).'” While the first type allows

the spirit to wander about on Dobu Island, the second type lets the spirit travel across the strait to Mount Bwebweso, where the spirits of the dead live. The latter is more dangerous due to the greater distance and the expectation of deeply emotional experiences when contacting beloved ones on Bwebweso. But even the first type of dream-travel is risky, because one is likely to encounter witches or other spirits who can injure those who have no protective magic. Both methods are secret techniques that I was told about with some hesitation because my informants were worried about the effect on my mental health if I were to try them out myself: the sleeping body must not be disturbed while the spirit is out and about, otherwise it cannot re-enter the body and the person goes mad."* Technically, both methods are performed by rubbing two particular leaves against each other and placing them under the wooden headrest before going to sleep.'? The separation of spirit and body can only be experienced temporarily while a mentally sane person is alive. Following death, of course,

this state is permanent after the spirit is sent away from Dobu during mortuary feasting. From this perspective it follows that the distinction between wakefulness and sleep is determined by the state of the physical body only. The spirit is regarded as a separate entity that can leave the physical body while still managing to control all perceptions and

movements — even more so, for the senses are said to be sharper in

sleep. Small children can distinguish between real persons and spirits, a capacity that is lost when a child is about two years old. This is the reason, it is said, why they often cry at night: ‘When Mandi wakes up

at night and cries, it is because he has seen a spirit or a witch. Because

children’s eyes are still clear and they can see everything’. The head (deba- or bulubulu)

The head has a dominant position among the body parts. Before the 43

Google

Dobu

missionaries changed mortuary ritual, skulls were kept and held at dugumalala dances by the matrilineage of the deceased. The belief that

witches divide and distribute the corpse of a human victim for consumption includes the notion that the witch who receives the head has to provide the next victim. In both cases the head represents the whole

person. The head is the seat of the senses of vision, smell, taste, hearing

and the locus of speech and gaze. It is arguable that this sociable di-

mension is the basis for the head’s significance and for the ritual use of skulls in former times. The head is used as a metaphor in describing stinginess (deba’ose) and stubborn egoism (deba pa’ala, ‘head-hard’).”° Both metaphors also

point towards individuality as a negatively valued character trait.”!

They are insults if spoken directly to someone’s face and are mostly

used to explain unsociable behaviour of children and young adults.

My informants identified the head as the seat of thought, percep-

tion and social skills in general, although they could not decide whether

nua- was in the brain or in the trunk, like ate-. Linguistic evidence,

however, points towards a conceptualisation of the brain (mapulu) as

the locus of knowledge, as in the insult ‘dog’s brain’ (mapulu kedewa)

that compares the ‘big-headiness’ and low intelligence of a person with the antisocial stupidity of a dog. The expression debagu i sakosakowasi

(literally ‘head-my-it-is-going-around’) describes dizziness caused by sickness, drunkenness, or betel intoxication. In such states, one’s mind

is not under the usual control; balance and perception are changed and speaking needs more deliberation.

In addition to these expressions, there are other reasons to assume

the particular importance of the head in regard to personality. It must

not be touched by a stranger but is the only part of the body that can be touched with affection in public, as when delousing a spouse or close kin. As lice are very common, the head needs and typically receives most bodily care; the hair is combed,

split into sections and

searched for lice and nits. Head symbolism can be employed for the highest valuables of kula exchange. The width of the muwali shell, a significant indicator of its value, is called its ‘head’ (deba-). The high-

est category of kula shell valuables is called dagula, the usual term for

a feather or flower that is tucked into the hair.?* The class of second best valuables is called bulubulu (skull, head). In pre-colonial days it

was possible to pay compensation (pwaoli) for a human victim with

44

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

kula shells of these two highest classes (see also Macintyre 1995: 37).

In body language, the way of holding the head is indicative of a

person’s feelings: upright and relaxed with a friendly expression, bowed in anger or sorrow or hung in shame or grief. It should be bowed when passing in front of sitting persons as a sign of ‘respect’. For this reason, a widow(er) has to hold it down and keep it covered at all times when

leaving the hut during mourning. The connection between the position of the head and the demonstration of ‘respect’ reveals its symbolic significance in terms of personality, autonomy, and hierarchy. The cultural ethic of self-control of one’s ‘inside’ (alamai’ita) demands that

facial and verbal expressions be restricted to a friendly mask. This is

said to be one reason why some people wear dark glasses whenever

they fear exposure of their ‘true inside’ in fraught emotional situations (for example, when being accused at a village court hearing). Female

mourners often hold a towel to their face when wailing, not only to

wipe away the tears but also as a mask in case their prescribed grieving performance is poorly enacted.

Life on Dobu is greatly influenced by the constant presence of oth-

ers, who can see, hear, smell, or otherwise deduce what one is doing.

Even if no one is nearby, there is no guarantee of privacy of the ‘inside’, because witches and sorcerers are believed to have the ability to

observe others invisibly. The spirits of the ancestors, too, are believed to watch, smell, listen, and react to what they perceive. Since the burial

grounds were shifted away from the centre of the hamlet and skulls are no longer kept in houses, the presence of the spirits is less pervasive but remains a significant cause for caution. It follows that the human

head is a symbol of a person’s ability to perceive and understand the

world and to communicate selected thoughts and emotions, thereby consciously negotiating ethical values and representing the whole person. It is the visible part of the body that stands for individual integrity and personal agency. The relational person

Personal relations are understood to form a person’s physical body, in particular the blood and skin. While blood relates a person to his or her matrilineage and other kin, the skin is a visible sign of totemic descent, personal history and current state of the body (such as preg45

Google

Dobu nancy and general health). As such, the skin gives evidence of a person’s

general conduct and social standing. By examining these elements of the concept of the person in more detail it appears that individual and relational aspects overlap whenever persons act, displaying parts of their ‘inside’ strategically, using their physical body to perform as social persons and in turn showing the signs of these actions on their skin. The blood (lala-)

Blood is understood to be the essence created by the eating of food; it

makes bodies grow (as during pregnancy) and gives strength and energy to a person.”? It is the mother’s blood that ‘makes’ the baby. After

the sexual fluids (a- molo) of a man and a woman have accumulated in

her womb and stopped her period (navalae, also grows exclusively through her blood.* Later, her ishes the infant. It is through her molo, blood and becomes a member of her matrilineal group. But

‘moon’), the baby breast milk nourmilk that the child the father’s role is

also taken into account. Through his subsistence work in feeding and child, and giving strength to their blood, he becomes the relative. The child is supposed to show his or her gratitude ‘work’ of both parents, but in different ways according to their

mother child’s for the contri-

bution. Hence, blood is a significant indicator of the social space of a

child by relating him or her to a specific matrilineage and to a particular male care-giver.

The mother’s blood infuses the child during pregnancy. But as the

child grows, other persons assume roles as helpers by directly or indirectly providing food. With such persons, among them maternal and paternal relatives, family friends and namesakes, the growing child begins to engage in exchanges. Individual adults therefore embody the ‘work’ of many people; they are indebted to people of several hamlets

for their ‘work’ in helping them to mature. It is this indebtedness that creates life-long bonds between several such adults, maternal as well

as paternal relatives. These bonds are articulated and manifested in

regular exchanges, mainly of betel nuts, fish, yams and pork.

Blood is a consumable body fluid, a fact that is illustrated in the

way pigs are slaughtered.

After spearing the pig, Simi put a piece of coconut husk into the wound to keep the blood inside. He explained that it makes the meat look nice

46

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

and red as well as improving its taste. Some boys killed their pig with the blunt side of an axe, hitting it again and again until eventually it

died. I asked why they chose such a slow and painful death for the pig.

They explained that it keeps all the blood inside and makes the meat look nice and red. [Field Notes]

The early literature refers to Dobu as a place where people ‘drink hu-

man blood raw’.?5 Even if this were not true (none of my informants knew about such practice), the rhetoric of some magical spells sug-

gests familiarity with the concept of ‘drinking blood’. Bleeding wounds

can be dried by covering with leaves of the lalanuma tree (literally *blood-drink’) after they have been roasted on a fire and be-spelled

with secret words. The term lalanuma also refers metaphorically to a particular fighting spell that stuns enemies and weakens them so much

that they can be punched in the face and so ‘drink their own blood’.

Blood can be ‘bad’ (to’umali-), a condition that is related to bodily

weakness and illness. The broad concept of ‘bad blood’ includes small, itchy boils as well as menstrual blood and the very serious sickness called lala.”6 This last form of ‘bad blood’ is caused by the consump-

tion of ‘forbidden food’, usually food that is designated to symbolise a

dead body, either during bwabwale (mortuary feasting) or afterwards,

by eating food that has grown on the land of a deceased paternal rela-

tive. The fear of ‘forbidden food? is still acute although one would expect the threat of lala to be less serious than in pre-colonial days,

when apparently anyone who was sick with Jala was thrown into a cave at the northern end of Dobu

(at Sailele Island) to die without

further assistance. This was done from fear of becoming infected with this deadly disease.2” When making my enquiries about Jala, I found

little concrete knowledge but much fear.

‘Bad blood’ is a result of misconduct, either directly caused by eat-

ing ‘forbidden food’ or indirectly induced by someone’s magical tech-

niques in order to punish a person for ‘bad behaviour’. It has a black colour and in the case of a boil (lala edeyana), the condition can be cured by making a small cut with a thorn that releases some drops. Headaches are usually caused by ‘bad blood’ and one common remedy is to rub the forehead with a leaf from the kwatekwateya vine, this causes a prickling sensation on the forehead and dissolves the ‘bad blood’. Lala is said to be the blood of dead persons, either caused by

‘eating a dead relative’, or manoeuvred into one’s body by means of 47

Google

Dobu sorcery or witchcraft. In the latter case, it can often be detected and removed by a healer, in the first case there is no means of cure. The skin (bwala)

The skin is the barrier and conduit between the inner and the outer body, testifying to the state of health, age, social skills and knowledge

of a person. As such it is a metaphor of social integration. Before the advent of textile clothing people displayed more skin: women wore about three layers of fibre skirts of knee length and men a pubic leaf that covered their genitals. In Dobu terms, people were ‘with the skin’ (mabwala-). A great number of myths in the Massim area exploit the

notion of ‘double skin’, that is, a diseased and ugly outer skin which

conceals a beautiful and healthy inner skin (Young

1987: 224-25).

This snake-like attribute subverts the reality according to which a per-

son’s skin reveals his or her ethical status. It might express the wish of being able to shed the shame of one’s personal history of ‘bad conduct’

to reappear as a good person.”*

The ideal of beauty is reflected in the finery that is worn at mortu-

ary feasts, when both men and women should be decorated with arm-

bands and feathers in the hair. The lips should be bright red from betel

chewing that also produces its characteristic astringent smell, generally perceived as fresh and attractive. Hibiscus flowers and the red bagi necklace (talamaga) add further colour. In addition to these items of clothing and decoration, the skin is covered in aromatised coconut

oil and appears shiny and evenly coloured.” Black lines with white dots are drawn on the cheeks, and other body paint is added according

to taste. Persons who are decorated like this smell beautifully of betel,

coconut oil and aromatic leaves. At important feasts, women wear valuable bagi necklaces around their necks with the decorative ends dangling down the back. The woman holds the centrepiece of the bagi away from her neck with a single finger when she feels the weight too heavy on her throat. This gesture in itself expresses beauty and wealth.

Although it constrains women’s activities by engaging one of their hands, it does not hinder them in doing their ‘work’.*°

The skin offers rich information about the current condition of a

person. Its structure gives evidence of approximate age; women’s skins reveal pregnancy (when the nipples turn darker) as well as their his48

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

tory of birthing and breastfeeding. Scars tell tales of past injuries and the degree of healing indicates how much time has passed since a wound occurred. Before mission influence, some people had their septums

pierced, and today teenagers pierce their ear lobes and make each other

simple tattoos.>! The skin shows the first signs of puberty, when girls develop breasts and are classed as gomagweine and boys begin to grow

facial hair and become tubuau. A few years later, when a girl’s breasts are fully developed and drop a little, she is called siwaboa and consid-

ered ready for marriage. A young man whose beard starts growing

more regularly and whose stature has changed into that of a man (tai)

is expected to end his relatively unrestrained life as a bachelor.

Facial expressions evince emotions and also a person’s capacity to

suppress them in order to maintain a ‘friendly outside’. Skin needs to

be warm in order to feel comfortable. Such a feeling of comfort is

referred to in one of the rituals for marriage called lo’e bwala yaiyai

(literally ‘making-skin-hot’). The bride cooks in the groom’s hamlet,

sweeps it thoroughly and gives a plate of food to each household. The women of the hamlet roast a long yam (called egoi, literally ‘to become-smell’) and hold it under the nose of the bride to ‘make her smell

the food’, a gesture that enables her to eat in the groom’s hamlet with-

out feeling ashamed. This is repeated when the groom’s female relatives cook for the bride’s hamlet later on. The ‘skin becomes hot’ and

the nose accustomed to the food of the affines, which, in fact, might be a different cultivar of yam and therefore smell and taste unfamiliar. Hence ‘heating up the skin’ symbolically represents the process of becoming a resident affine; it is a metaphor for feeling comfortable in strange territory.

Certain lines on the palm of the hand are read as representing a

person’s totemic clan bird. The right hand, it is said, shows the moth-

er’s clan, ‘because the right hand is more important’, while the left hand shows the father’s clan.** Although I did not meet anyone who could tell me the signs that allow for this reading of the hands, my enquiries elicited folk models when I showed my own hands. ‘You are magisubu (sea eagle), like me. Look, both our hands look the same. They have these lines that form the letter ‘M’ like magisubu’. Skin diseases like ringworm, boils, and ulcers are usually interpreted

as visible signs of property violation such as trespass and stepping onto a tabu spell placed by the owner to punish intruders. The outbreak of 49

Google

Dobu

a boil or ulcer is the first sign but if it does not heal after a short while

and becomes worse the community interprets this as a further punishment, either because the person who has placed the tabu refuses to

remove it, or because the victim of the tabu has not yet apologised and explicitly asked for its removal with its counter spell. The tabu to cause sipoma, an ugly skin disease (Tinea imbricata), to give an example, can be put on any plant or object that its owner

wants to protect from thieves or intruders. The secret spell can either

be whispered on the (similarly ugly) fruit of the kayasi tree, a wild fig,

that is then thrown against the object to set the tabu, or it be whispered in front of the object before spitting on it. The tions body parts that will be afflicted with the disease. Only who has set a tabu can remove it by reversing the spell.

can simply spell menthe person The secret

words have to be muttered over water that has been collected early in

the morning, when the last stars are still visible. This prepared water

cures the disease when the afflicted person washes with it.

The skin needs to be ‘strong’ in order to heal quickly after minor

injuries of everyday life, and babies are washed at intervals with spe-

cial mixtures, such as buyobuyowa leaves, in order to make their skin strong. A baby with a skin disease suggests negligent parents. Healers

seem to extract small objects from ‘under the skin’ of a sick person that give important diagnostic information about the kind of illness and its possible cure. These objects are held to be proof of harm done by either witches or other beings, such as Tokwatokwa.

States of the body Sickness is a visible sign of misconduct and closely linked to moral behaviour because ‘good people’ are far less likely to fall victim to witchcraft or sorcery. Detached parts of the body, like hair that has been combed out, finger and toenail parings, are perceived as still being attached to the person in spite of their spatial separation. These

relics (sumwana — rubbish) have to be hidden from others, just as excrement, betel nut husks, cigarette butts and other objects that have

had an intimate relationship to the body. Such things can harm the body if they are treated badly: hair that is burned in a fire will stop hair on the head from growing. If a strand of hair is blown around and a pig or a dog urinates on it, hair on the head will fall out. As well as 50

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

these direct impacts, body relics in general can be picked up by someone who may use them for love magic or sorcery. Footprints are said to have the same vulnerability but I never saw people trying to erase their prints on a beach or path, though it was obvious that some were

concerned about my ignorance when I burned the hair after cleaning my brush. Relics are never left behind because it is possible to identify the person who left a betel nut husk or cigarette butt. As long as the person is known, the connection still exists. The only place where such

relics can be disposed of safely is the sea. Rubbish is swept up each

morning and thrown into the water. Used grass skirts were disposed of in the shallow water at the beach. The hamlet’s latrine is constructed as an offshore hut where fishes eat the faeces. Sorcery and love magic require some personal object for an effective impact on the owner’s inner states: When I was young, I was really smart. I worked in Samarai, and one day I wanted to sleep with this woman. She was married but I thought ‘maski, | want her’. So I got some tobacco, rolled a cigarette and sat down with her. We sat down and I offered her the cigarette. She had some puffs and I got the cigarette back, spent it and kept it. Later, I lit a fire, took the two halves of an empty coconut shell, put the butt

inside and said my spell over it. Then I put the shell into the fire so that

the smoke of the tobacco came out through the holes of the coconut shell. By then I knew she was mine already. So I finished this magic and went home. Islept for an hour or so and then she knocked at my door.

I told her how to divorce her husband and it all went well. We were

married for about a year and then I went back to Dobu. [Field Notes] The shadow

(a- ma’amayau)

can be used for this kind of magic as

well.?? When I had my first attack of malaria, a couple of people diagnosed my sickness as being related to the shadow. Somebody (they independently explained) must have taken a

relic from my body and

‘played with it’ in the afternoons, when I felt worse. The result of these

manipulations was the sickness ma’amayau, causing my weakness, frequent headache, and raised temperature. I was offered herbal remedies

(‘T'll give you some kaiwe [bush medicine] and you’ll wash with it and

it will finish’), but for the sake of my health (and sanity) I preferred to

trust in antibiotics and anti-malarial tablets. In cases of sickness, the

first question to be asked is ‘who did it’ rather than ‘what is it’. As I

was forced to spend my time in bed, I wondered who might have felt 51

Google

Dobu

inclined to make me sick and thus I began to understand the social consequence of this concept of illness. There is a kind of sickness that can be glossed as a ‘social syn-

drome’, as it appears collectively among the dwellers in a hamlet (dis-

regarding their relatedness in kinship terms). This malaise is called gwasa or nadiwala.** It causes hangover-like symptoms and obliges everyone to stay at home for two days, chewing betel nuts to find some relief from tiredness, various aches, and a general feeling of being un-

well. Gwasa is caused by absence. If a hamlet-dweller stays away overnight, he or she leaves ‘his’ or ‘her’ gwasa behind. Fajans has reported a similar syndrome from the Baining of New Britain and explained it in terms of the interdependence of a person with the group (1985: 380-82). Yet on Dobu even unrelated visitors, like myself, are expected to cause it or to suffer from its symptoms, a fact that makes me wary of accepting Fajans’s explanation for Dobu. To my understanding,

gwasa is a way of reinforcing the ethic of miabaula (the injunction to stay at home and mind one’s own business); it is an embodied sanction because it discourages people from staying away overnight without

good reason, as they are scolded about gwasa when they return home.

Gwasa is an inner state that sheds an interesting light on the concept

of the person, because something is left behind when a person goes away. It is not sadness about the temporary loss of a group member but rather having to put up with someone’s gwasa that is the issue. Everyone

can cause gwasa,

but ‘strong’

(waiwai)

‘stronger’ gwasa behind when they absent themselves.

persons

leave a

When sickness is associated with a breach of ethics, as is the usual

case, it is called asa le’oasina (hamlet sickness). Some cases are thought

to be caused by germs (literally ‘worms’, mwatamwata) deriving from

the Western concept of sickness (le’oasa dimdim), especially if medical

treatment heals the patient. Yet there is another dimension to sickness

that is closely related to the development of a person: this lies in the interrelatedness of growth and sickness in children. I was frequently informed by mothers with sick children that there is a rhythm of sickness and progress:

Children get sick, and then they change. They get sick and afterwards they can sit. They get sick and then they can crawl. They get sick and the teeth break through. It is always like this. They get sick and then

they walk, and so on, until they are big. [Field Notes]

52

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person In this sense, sickness can be a normal phase of maturation, a state of being that is necessary for a person in order to grow up, an element of

his or her individual development. Birthing, for example, is conceptu-

alised as such a sickness that occurs normally in women’s lives. Sickness and health are also related to notions of ‘wetness’ and ‘dryness’.

For example, women are supposed to wait some years after one birth before falling pregnant again in order to become ‘dry’. This process begins with the seclusion after childbirth that is explained as ‘roasting’

the woman to ‘dry’ her out. While in seclusion, women remain on a

strict diet called bodaita. Their food contains no sea water, coconut

cream, fish or meat and tastes as bland as the hot water that is their

only drink. This diet is given to all those who are sick because people

believe that only by eating bodaita can the sick body return to a dry, strong and healthy state.>* Person and gender

Gender differences are particularly significant on Dobu due to witchcraft. This complex belief system is based on the general assumption

that every woman is a witch (welabana), and has been given particular

knowledge in her early childhood when she was swallowed by her

mother and passed out again through her anus. Women always deny being witches, however, and it is an unforgivable insult to call a woman

a witch. Only a few women were actually pointed out to me, behind their backs, as ‘champion witches’ — the most dangerous beings on Dobu.* In short, witches are said to have superhuman abilities: they can fly, be invisible, see, hear, and smell much better, and eat decaying

‘flesh without getting sick. Their eyes, ears, nose, and mouth are en-

larged and they love to meet nightly for dances and conspiratorial

meetings. The most prominent characteristic of witches is their uncon-

trollable appetite, in particular, the craving for human flesh. This antisocial desire impels them to kill within their own hamlet, preferably

their husbands. Men are aware of the dangers that come with matrimonial bliss: sexual intercourse with women can make them weak and

sick through the fire inside the womb (kaiya-). If a woman steps over

her sleeping husband at night she may drain his life energy. The idea

that witches have an internal fire appears in myths that tell the story of

53

Google

Dobu

the first cooking of food (see Fortune 1932: 295-96; David Lithgow 1975; Bromilow

1910: 484; 1912: 425). While witches have fire in

their pubes, women’s menstruation is associated with the moon

(navalae) and described as a ‘cold’ state. This contradiction is typical of the notion of witchcraft. As other Massim researchers have noted,

the witch is in many ways the antithesis of the ideal female gender role; destructive instead of nurturative, uncontrolled instead of disciplined in her emotions, immoral instead of moral (see, for example, Macintyre 1995: 39ff; Lepowsky 1994: 204).

When women are not in the alternative state of being witches, they

are life-givers, creating babies in their wombs and yams in their gardens. They have control over these fruits of their ‘work’ and display

great self-confidence and authority in everyday affairs. Unlike in many other societies, they are able to take up plenty of space when sitting (with legs wide apart if they like), and when walking (with a basket on

their head and swinging movements of their arms). Their overall pos-

ture is marked by a straight spine and a raised head, expressing strength, dignity and the liberty to claim all the space they need.?” This posture

was remarked by the missionary Sister Billing in 1885:

They have such straight backs, as they always carry on their heads, so have to hold themselves well. The men carry on their shoulder, and are not nearly so erect as the women. [1930: 76]

As witches, however, women are said to walk bowed, to meet outside the settlements for their nightly dances and carry no baskets; in short,

to withdraw to the margin of society and act without the usual self-

confidence of legitimate presence. The belly of the woman is not covered by her fibre skirts (dobe), which hang low on the hips, following the natural line of the belly and buttocks. The right side, where the skirts are tied (a routine motion of

the twirling fingers as skirts are frequently changed or adjusted) remains slightly open, but it is essential to keep the thighs covered. The

shape of the dobe skirts at a woman’s back isa

telltale sign of her

degree of industriousness. My friend Kaibado explained that ‘when the fibres are leaping out she must be working hard, but when they

hang down and form a round shape the woman is lazy’. As women are breastfeeding for long periods of their lives, the erotic allure of breasts

in the Western sense applies mainly to adolescent girls (gomagweine) 54

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

with breasts that ‘stand as if they pierce’. Today, cotton skirts are still

worn low on the waist as this is ‘more comfortable’, and although T-shirts cover their breasts women are not particularly concerned about keeping them hidden. While cotton clothes add a heavy workload to

the women’s daily chores, they do not restrict their bodily expression.

Moreover, as skirts and shirts cover much of the body they help to conceal early signs of pregnancy, sipoma disfigurement, and other indicators of a woman’s conduct. To conclude, women’s roles are ambiguous but powerful either way. The division of labour gives them the major chores of raising

children and growing yams, co-operating with their husbands in eve-

ryday matters of subsistence and with their brothers in matrilineage matters and hamlet politics. Their ‘work’ is fully acknowledged as cru-

cial for the survival of Dobu society.

Men, in contrast, are far less tied to everyday duties but have to

divide their energies between their sisters and their wife’s matrilineage.

Their gender role includes all heavy labour of house- and canoe-build-

ing, clearing of new gardens and cutting firewood. Men are in full

charge of banana plants and occasionally go for nocturnal fishing. Many of these tasks do not occur on an everyday basis, or do not require

quite as much time as the female chores. As a consequence, men tend

to spend time in different hamlets and seem to enjoy longer periods of

leisure than women, a fact that causes women to speak in a somewhat derogatory fashion about their ‘usefulness’. However, men often act

as speakers for their matrilineage, demand deference from their wives

and younger sisters, and regard themselves as the dominant gender: posturing that causes Dobu women to gossip about them as ‘showing-

off for nothing’. A concept of the person emerges from my data that is based on an interaction between the ‘outer body’ (etana) and the ‘inner body’ (sola-)

in different states of consciousness (such as sleep), and in different modes of activity (such as ‘work’). Some elements of the person so constituted are regarded as innate individual features, while others are

the result of social interaction and personal conduct. This concept of the person is ultimately based on the notion of ‘correct’ behaviour in responding to the demands of standard ethical rules. The expression of thoughts and emotions is filtered and monitored according to strategic aims in the attempt to create an image of the self that is favourable SS

Google

Dobu in moral terms. Only witches are totally antisocial, but when a woman is in the ‘mode’ of witchcraft she is no longer regarded a person (tomota).

The ‘social value’ of work is an individual effort to display good moral behaviour as well as a ‘dividual’ demonstration of relatedness. In fact, the Dobu concept of ‘work’ (paisewa) eclipses forms of medi-

ated and unmediated exchange, substitution and replication (Strathern 1988: 181-82) my analysis of manifestation or terminating

as well as gifts and commodities. As a starting point for the Dobu concept of the person, ‘work’ appears as the of individual strategies, aimed at creating, maintaining relations, using bodily resources in a conscious man-

ner. These resources are drawn from ‘inner’ and ‘outer’ dimensions of

the body; they are ‘individual’ as well as ‘dividual’, ‘natural’ as well as

‘cultural’.

Notes 1 Compare, however, Macintyre’s statement that Misima ‘like several other Massim languages’ has a particular word for ‘human being’ (gamagal) 2 3

4 5 6

7

8 9

distinct from other creatures (bwasumu) (1990: 89).

Since madawa is the term for the tree used to make sea-going canoes,

tomadawa might also be rendered as ‘person-floating-log’.

See Macintyre for a similar statement from Tubetube (1993: 53).

Fora similar description of ‘work’ in relation to leadership on Fergusson

Island see Digim’Rina (1995: 42 ff). See also Macintyre’s discussion of the conceptualisation of the person in Misima (1990: 88ff). Fora list of words referring to ‘inner’ states, see appendix 1.

See Lutz for a detailed analysis of a similar concept among the Ifaluk of Micronesia (1988: 114). See also H. Geertz 1959; M. Rosaldo 1980; Feld 1982. According to Bromilow, the mind is located in the chest and the throat and

the emotions in ‘vital parts’ (1914: 546). Macintyre’s statement that in

Tubetube the heart is the ‘seat’ of nua adds further confusion (1987: 209). 10 This critique matches my own observations and was confirmed by Digim’Rina (pers. comm. 5.2.1995). See, for example, Watson’s mistaken attempt to render Dobu in phonetics for his Australian readers by spelling

it ‘Doughboo’ (1941: 1). By native speakers, Dobu is pronounced with short, single vowels.

11 Fortune may have been confused by the fact that adjectives and verbs carry

the same suffix as body parts etc. , but there is no relation to spatial

56

Google

The Dobu Concept of the Person

aspects in these forms. 12 Note also the subtleties with regard to the word ‘respect’: i- amayaba is used to refer to the respect that someone gives; a- amayaba for the respect that someone receives. In its verbal form, the suffix is used: « da

amayabegu (you shall respect me).

13 Also: ana waiwai, its weight; ana mwau, its trouble or hardness; ana bobo’ana, its goodness; ana maisa or ana e’isa, its price or response; buki 14

ana sawa, the contents of a book (literally ‘book its reading’). See also Macintyre’s observation that on Tubetube ‘will (nua-) invariably

implies a notion of individual personal identity that sets the person in clear

opposition to the social world of family, hamlet and community’ (1995: 42).

15 For a similar view from Misima see Macintyre (1990: 92). 16 According to my informants, prophetic dreams usually occur just before

daybreak, see also Young for a somewhat different classification of dreams

in Kalauna (1996). 17 See also Munn (1990: 15 n.9). 18 For the relation between witchcraft and madness see also Schlesier (1983: 125). 19 Young describes similar techniques known to Kalauna sorcerers (1983a: 213; 1996: 105). 20 See also Kulick’s analysis of the Tok Pisin use of the term hed in relation to

egoism that needs to be suppressed (1992: 102 ff).

21 See also Kulick for hed as a symbol for individualism (1992: 102) and save

as knowledge and observing ethical precepts (1992: 119); save is inborn

and ‘ “breaks open” (bruk, ...) inside the child, like an egg.’ (1992: 120).

22 According to early missionary records, feathers in the hair of men were

signs of homicide (Tinney, 7 July 1892, also quoted by Syme 1985: 58).

23 Dixon mentions two synonyms for lala (rara): deasa and buyaa (n.d.: 29,

36, 153), but I have never heard them being used. The blood inside a

mosquito is called se’a (n.d.: 15)

24 ‘When twins are born, the first child is referred to as gwamana (her child)

and the second one as /alana (her blood). These terms might be related to

the former practice of infanticide of the second-born twin (see also Bromilow 1909: 8). 25 Bromilow (1910: 476). 26 See also Schlesier (1983: 126ff, 219). 27 Schlesier reports for Me’udana, that /ala can affect any susu relative near the sick person but would not be contagious for their spouses (1983: 128). 28 See also A. Strathern for a discussion of the notion of shame as being ‘on the skin’ (1977: 99ff).

57

Google

Dobu 29 The ideal of beauty favours light brown skin, as it ‘shines’ (nanamala)

more than darker skin.

30 See Munn for notions of beauty in relation to kula in Gawa (1986: 102-3). 31 These tattoos often carry cryptic messages, such as ‘ ITALY’ (I Truly Always Love You). 32 See also Schlesier (1983: 27). 33 Note the difference between a person’s ‘shadow’ (a- ma’amayau) and

photographic image (ma’amayau-). The term for shade, as of a house or

tree, is yauyaukwa. 34 See also Roheim (1950a: 175-76); Kuehling 1996. 35 See, in contrast, Damon’s account of ‘wet’ and ‘dry’ in terms of gender distinction in the Northern Massim (1990: 207). 36 Contrary to Trobriand belief, the flying witch or sea witch (gelaboi) is not feared as much on Dobu. The gelaboi usually likes to be out at night for fishing, minding her own business, and although she can kill without clear motive she might occasionally also help people in need. Thune called them ‘special ocean witches’ (1980: 174), and Schlesier was told that gelaboi (also called menumu)

(1983: 113).

are residents of the hamlets

37 Macintyre also describes the Tubetube women’s (1993: 56).

58

Google

under the ground ‘confident bearing’

Chapter 3 PATHS AND PATTERNS OF EVERYDAY EXCHANGES Name of the gift: lema (help), ta’ona (apology)

Gifts of mutual help called lema (or bwaga) and of ‘apology’, called

ta’ona (literally ‘we speak’) are the keys to everyday exchanges. In Dobu, such gifts are typically low in value and occur within the immediate social vicinity of a person, most frequently within the hamlet of residence but also between patrilateral kin and members of the same totemic clan. Although they are ‘small’, these gifts are significant for a person’s social standing as they reveal his or her personal qualities; it is through everyday conduct of sharing and supporting that individuals

are considered to be ‘good’ or ‘bad’. This chapter examines the ethics

of interaction as they present themselves in the exchange of ‘small gifts’,

focussing on the bonds that are manifested by relations of ‘help’ and

on the strategies of creating and maintaining them.

The ethics of everyday exchanges favour generosity and an almost

unlimited sharing of possessions. Persons are encouraged to give away

food, lend tools and other possessions with or without being asked to do so. These ethics of conduct often lead to conflicting interests when persons are torn between the urge to keep, and the need to share their

food, labour, drugs, and other belongings. Bambi Schieffelin reports from the Kaluli people of the Papuan Plateau, that the imperatives of giving and taking and the desire to keep for oneself are the basis of the ‘central tension’ in Kaluli life (1990: 136).! Annette Weiner identifies

this tension as a universal social conundrum:

Yet it is the paradoxes of social life that contain the seeds of first principles — those duplicities and ambiguities that create tensions that can only be ameliorated and never resolved. Exchange is predicated on

a universal paradox - how to keep-while-giving. [1992: 5] The

dominant

requirement

of ‘custom’

(bubuna

Dobu)

can

be

summarised as ‘respect’ (amayaba). To be a respectful person requires

‘self-discipline’ (alamai’ita) and ‘generosity’ (oboboma). I argue that

these ethics are effective in constraining a person’s selfishness and in 59

Google

Dobu

serving as strategic tools of interaction. My understanding of the

psychology of everyday life on Dobu is generally in line with Weiner’s analysis of Kiriwina: Individuals are faced with the task of protecting their personal space from the influence of others, while simultaneously, they may be attempting to impose their influence on others. Out of the possibilities

of wanting and needing, in a never ending scheme of demands, an individual must act as if she or he wants nothing, needs nothing, and

will demand nothing. How a person negotiates his or her own desires with the desires of another person is an extremely delicate undertaking. [1984: 164]

Gifts of ‘mutual help’ form individual networks based on solidarity.

This solidarity is expressed in terms of kinship, but, as previous research in the Massim has shown, it depends on an individual’s agency to verify

and make use of these links within a wide range of possible options. Dobu individuals have a considerable amount of flexibility and choice, in the way that Lepowsky describes for the Louisiades:

Vanatinai social collectivities, such as lineages, hamlet coresidents, speakers of a Vanatinai dialect, or exchange partners, are unbounded.

You are born to a Guau clan, but you are not obliged to activate or

strengthen reciprocal ties in your lineage or to incur your neighbour’s

gratitude and indebtedness. You can move away: you can always find

other Guau, even on distant islands (or people with the same bird). Or

else you can activate land rights that come from some other connection

and develop ties of coresidence, fictive kinship, affinity, and exchange with others, who are likely to exchange with you eventually if you give generously of your labor and your wealth. [1994: 300] For those who do not want to move away from their hamlets, however, there is little choice but to attempt to be judged a ‘good’ person. The pressure of cooperating and sharing in order to be assessed as ‘respectful’, that is, generous and disciplined, is most accentuated in

the hamlet of residence, among those people who, by definition, form a solidary unit. The ‘small gifts’ of ‘help’ entail ‘work’ and objects for consump-

tion and use. While the use of a borrowed tool demands a compensatory return gift and ‘work’ is immediately repaid with a meal (e’oasi) and the provision of betel and tobacco to maintain stamina (niaula),

60

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges

the sharing of objects of consumption is reciprocated when an appro-

priate occasion arises. In Sahlins’s terms, ‘help’ is a form of gift that is

based on the concept of ‘generalised reciprocity’ (1972: 193-94). In

Dobu, however, it is sometimes perceived in more balanced form as a

direct compensation: for example, when a worker is fed or a borrowed fishing net is returned with a gift of fish.

Hamlet life and the duty of ‘help’ Most of a person’s lifetime is spent interacting within the hamlet,

particularly with neighbours of the same sex. During daytime when the chores of gardening and housekeeping are complete, leisure time can be enjoyed. People usually sit together in the shade of a veranda,

either supervising the smaller children, sharing betel and tobacco and

talking about everyday matters such as the weather, garden work, the

bad behaviour of their spouses or teenage children, or incidents of general concern (such as court cases, market days, school fundraising efforts and church activities). Almost all of family life takes place in

public, as the inside of the house is only used for sleeping at night and

for storing the few possessions. Each house has an extensive veranda where household members sit together in idle times and during meals. Although some houses have low roofs that allow some privacy, family

life is always subject to the gaze of neighbours.

Matrilineages are the predominant groups among hamlet residents. There are eighty-six matrilineages on Dobu Island according to my

1993 census. The social importance of the matrilineage has been de-

scribed in numerous monographs about the region (most recently by

Digim’Rina 1995: 30ff, 77ff). The matrilineage consists of all those who have ‘drunk from the same mother’s breasts’, in a factual as well

as metaphorical and historical sense over generations (epata). They are internally segmented in terms of primogeniture (‘big matrilineage’

[sus sinabwana], ‘middle matrilineage’ [susu gamwana], and ‘small

matrilineage’ [sus gidalina]). Members of a matrilineage are expected to support each other unconditionally, with cross-sex siblings forming the most enduring unit of co-operation.? In practice, however, many hamlets have histories of division and separation, often caused by conflicts between brothers or sisters, resulting in the creation of branch

hamlets.

61

Google

Dobu

Those who live in the same hamlet are morally obliged to support

each other. The Dobu term sogigi (literally ‘like teeth’) refers to this communal sense; it is a metaphor that equates hamlet members with teeth belonging to one mouth, operating for the benefit of all.3 This ideal principle of hamlet solidarity is rarely found in practice, where interpersonal tensions have disruptive effects on everyday life. The

notion of sogigi expresses the desire for living in peace and harmony ~ values that can only be achieved if individuals follow the ethics of

communal life: respect, self-discipline and generosity.

Most of the fifty-three hamlets on Dobu are small, consisting of

fewer than ten houses, each being the home of a nuclear family with

maybe one or two extra relatives. I counted a total of 284 houses in 1993. Hamlets are typically very close to each other so that an outsider finds it hard to distinguish single hamlets within a hamlet cluster

(the term used by Thune 1980). The hamlet is inhabited by people

who are either members of the landowning matrilineages (‘owners’, toni asa), their spouses

(aiyai), or the children of male

‘owners’

(labalaba).‘ Spouses are expected to display a subordinate demeanour

towards the ‘owners’, exemplified by the rule that ‘in-laws must not

approach their spouse’s hamlet empty handed’. As a matter of ‘re-

spect’ towards the ‘owners’, they should not raise their voices, cross

the centre of the hamlet needlessly and must display humble attitudes at all times. Typically, Dobu hamlets consist of female ‘owners’ with their hus-

bands, because residence is predominantly uxorilocal and matrilocal. Fortune’s description of Dobu residence as ambilocal with annual shifts between the spouses’ hamlets (1932: 4, 76) is incorrect according to

my data. My 1997 survey showed that about two-thirds of all marriages on Dobu were uxorilocal (for similar proportions in Me’udana see Schlesier 1983: 97).5 One of my informants explained Fortune’s

statement as a result of former administrative orders that were meant

to avoid quarrels between susu ple’s workforce. Such quarrels are either kept under control band’s hamlet is preparing for

concerning the equal sharing of a coudo occur these days, but normally they by temporarily moving when the husa feast, or by giving kula valuables to

the aggrieved matrilineage after the spouse’s death at his or her bwabwale feast.

According to my observation, residence depends on several fac-

62

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges

tors, depending on the actual situation within the two hamlets of the

married couple. If, for example, the husband’s hamlet has no adult

men, he is likely to be prevailed upon either to live there or to spend a considerable amount of time helping his mothers and sisters. If, on the other hand, the wife’s hamlet becomes short of mature women her

mother would be very reluctant to let her go. Similarly, if old or sick people have to be cared for by their younger relatives, a couple has no choice but to stay in the hamlet where their help is most needed.

Another factor is the availability of resources. If either of the couple’s hamlets has access to an abundance of garden land, good fishing reefs, or is located conveniently close to the school or other facilities (like fresh water, or hot springs for washing clothes), the decision might

well be influenced by these considerations. However, ideally each couple should move between both hamlets several times during the course

of their marriage, building a house inside the hamlet and making a

garden on the land that belongs to the spouse’s matrilineage. Yet it appears that while each spouse usually prefers to be in his or her own hamlet, women manage to spend more of their lives in their hamlets than men do, a fact that points to their reluctance to subordinate them-

selves as disempowered affines.°

A further reason for uxorilocal residence is related to the position

of children. The children of resident men are in an ambiguous position. Their fathers are ‘owners’ who have say in matrilineal matters,

but they are not ‘owners’ themselves. The children of female ‘owners’ (also true ‘owners’) are their playmates, but while the children of female ‘owners’ call each other ‘brother’ or ‘sister’,’ the reciprocal term of address between cross-cousins is niba-. The difference is understood by children from about three years of age onwards, and as children

lack the self-discipline and ‘respect’ that marks relations between adult niba-, childish quarrels can upset the mother (who is a disempowered

affine) and result in divorce. In such cases, the mother would take the

children back to her own hamlet. This theme is frequently found in myths, suggesting that the ideal of social harmony (sogigi) can be threatened by virilocal residence. The ethics of exchange mirror the ideal relations of hamlet resi-

dents. Expected to co-operate ‘like teeth’ inside one mouth, hamlet ‘owners’ are under compulsion to support each other ‘without even asking’. The only exception is made for yam seeds, a fact explained in 63

Google

Dobu

terms of individual subsistence and status by Dobu informants. Children can help themselves to the possessions of anyone within their nuclear family or move to live with a maternal relative on the basis of generalised reciprocity. The normative expectation of solidarity and co-operation that forms the basis of relationships within the matrilineage, and, to a lesser degree, with members of other matrilineages in the same hamlet, does not apply to the spouses of ‘owners’. Although resident affines are also expected to share their betel and tobacco with ‘owners’ to show ‘respect’, they should never be asked to do so unless the request is first directed towards their spouse, who transmits the

request to his or her partner and communicates the response to his or her matrilineal kin. Likewise, affines cannot ask ‘owners’ for anything unless by using their spouses as proxy to present their plea. This rule of ‘respect’ emphasises the marginal status of ‘those-resulting-frommarriage’ (to use Fortune’s term), defining them as supporters of their households who have to give proof of their good character by ‘making their spouse’s matriline happy’. This rule relaxes as time goes by, and senior affines who have shown ‘respect’ to their spouse’s matrilineage for many years gradually gain a status that approaches that of ‘owners’. The hamlet, it follows, is the place of solidarity, or quasi-unre-

stricted sharing, of ‘caring’ relationships and co-operative action. As the term sogigi suggests, its residents shall be bound by the ethic of mutual dependence and support. In practice, every married adult does live for some time as a resident in a different hamlet, either as a dominant ‘owner’ or as a subordinate affine. The way a person responds to these imperatives gives evidence of his or her character and social skills. Options of support In contrast to everyday hamlet life which obliges if not forces residents to co-operate, relations between people of the same totemic clan and between paternal kin depend on personal initiative. It is positively valued to maintain relations of ‘help’ that are based on such links, creating individual networks of mutual support, but there is a considerable degree of choice. On Dobu, kinship terminology is bilateral as long as one’s father

(or ‘male care giver’) is alive, so that father’s brothers (also called

‘father’, tama-) are terminologically married to ‘mothers’ (sina-), their 64

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges children being addressed as ‘siblings’ (tasi- and muu-). The diagram

below shows the links that allow a person to relate to paternal cousins as ‘siblings’ in spite of the fact that they belong to different matrilineages.

While a man’s death restructures the relation of his matrilineage with his children into hierarchical and morally restricted forms, his brother’s children continue to provide options of support with other matrilineages

that are based on notions of equality. Similarly, grandparents, (tubu-,

MF, FF) are supported and would give support if a relationship of

‘help’ has been established. This system ends with the second ascending

generation as great grandparents are termed ‘born again’ (tubua limana),

indicating that there is ‘no kin relation’. Any patrilateral relation that

goes further is called to’umala (stranger).

Diagram 3: Bilateral kinship terms

2

em

5A

fF 4

memenare

oa

er Te oto

eee ste

6

a

1

A

te

eee

6A

tO

a

6

4

father's matrilincage

EG0's mstrilineage

I would argue that, generally speaking, men add breadth to the kinship

system while women provide depth through descent, thereby creating

a form of social structure based on the concept that matrilineages

exchange men.’ As terminological siblings (also called ‘cousin brothers 65

Google

Dobu

and sisters’ or ‘uncles’ when speaking in English), the children of

brothers are ‘owners’ in different hamlets and can provide access to resources if there are established relations of ‘help’ between them. They

are labalaba with respect to the same hamlet and might have co-resided for some time during their childhood. I was told that it is often on the basis of childhood experiences of friendship that supportive relationships are maintained in adult years. These optional networks are legitimised as links between ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’.

The bird clan (manua) Patrilateral relations of exchange, however, are dependent on the quality

of the parents’ marriage. If it ends in divorce, or if the father’s

matrilineage is not interested in creating close ties with his children for any reason, these links will not be available. For this reason, people may state that they prefer to invest in supportive relationships with persons who are related to them by belonging to the same ‘bird’ clan. The totemic classification into bird clans is typical of the Massim area (see, for example, Young 1991c: 380ff). As stated in Chapter 2, people

on Dobu also claim that the pattern of lines in the palm of a person’s hands gives evidence of his or her totemic clan.'° I could not see any proof of this visual connection myself, but the fact that the totem is

perceived as being inscribed on the skin is evidence of its ‘naturalness’ as inherited through matrilineal descent. It is a body part that cannot be changed; nima- (‘hand’ plus possessive suffix) can be used

synonymously with i- manua (possessive alienable deictic stem plus

‘bird’). I did not find any evidence for additional totemic classifications (fishes, trees) that were reported by Fortune (1932: 36, 228).

While this system of classification assumes ‘natural’, automatic links between individuals, it is through relations of ‘help’ that such links are activated. The clan is connected to land (though less specifically than the matrilineage which has marked

boundaries), giving options of crea-

ting links that can be used to legitimise a person’s adoption and

inheritance. In the past, people of the same clan were expected not to

kill and eat one another

(see Bromilow

1910: 475) and exchange

partners in the kula were preferably from the same clan (Macintyre and Young 1982: 219). Every hamlet maintains links of mutual help 66

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges

for mortuary ritual with at least one ‘sister hamlet’ (see also Macintyre 1983a: 32, for Tubetube).

People of the same clan are supposed to support each other in mat-

ters related to land, such as temporary usufructus and gardening, hamlet

sites, burial grounds, and inheritance in case of the extinction of a

matrilineage. It is for this reason that clan exogamy is encouraged, because affinal relations carry restrictions in terms of land use after the

death of a spouse. Clan members can emphasise their closeness by using matrilineal kinship terms, expressing a general feeling that ‘they

are the same’. If such ideology is deployed, clan members accept the

responsibility of mutual ‘help’ that is typical for matrilineal relatives. This support consists of occasional exchanges of ‘small gifts’ and help

in gardening or fishing (‘work’); it can be requested and is repaid when

the opportunity arises under the principle of generalised reciprocity.

The ethics of exchange allow considerable freedom of choice as to the degree of co-operation and networking at the clan level, but it is regarded as a personal fault to be entirely negligent of such links. Once established, personal networks between members of the same clan can

be highly beneficial as they may lead to the use of garden land and even to adoption as a full member of another matrilineage. The Dobu

expression ‘work sets the rule’ points to this practice, to the option of

detaching oneself from one’s own matrilineage and becoming a member of another one of the same clan."!

The clans are divided into two notional categories, a fact that was

overlooked by Fortune (1932: 30ff).!? This division is related to the

nesting habit of the clan birds, that is, whether they build tree nests or

dwell in holes. Relating to this difference is the idea that only people of corresponding clans should inhabit the same hamlet, because ‘their ways’ are the same. In fact, of all Dobu Island, only in the hamlet of Losina (where I lived), were two clans of opposite nesting habits co-

residing, namely gewala (parroquet) and magisubu (sea eagle). As Fortune mentions only the gewala clan as the ‘owners’ of Losina

(1932: 32), there is reason to suppose there was a late acquisition of

land by members of magisubu clan. In fact, when I mentioned the case

of Losina, my informants said that it demonstrated the problems caused

by ‘different birds’ sharing the one hamlet. Conflicts between the totemic groups of Losina were frequent and often escalated into public

court cases.

67

Google

Dobu

Table 4: Clans on Dobu Island Clan and type of nest | Clan members’ names | English (Fortune 1932: 32f) | susu on Dobu

bunebune — nest

yowana

kaukau — nest

bwaiobwaio

magisubu — nest gewala — hole kanagala - hole keyoi - hole

magisubu gegela waigali wada’eya

White Pigeon

24

Crow

19

Brown Eagle Parroquet Green Parrot White Cockatoo

Nest: n=52; Hole: n=34

9 17 "1 6

Those who ‘stand behind’ (muli)

As I have shown so far, individuals have a range of options for creating relations of support with people from different matrilineages, enabling

them to gain access to the resources of different hamlets. It is up to the individual to establish relationships that can be useful in the future.

The term for all these supporters is muli, literally ‘followers’ or ‘those

who stand behind’. A person’s muli can often secure the support of his or her fellow hamlet dwellers, too. It is the network of muli relationships, built on personal relationships of ‘help’, that enables a matrilineage (or hamlet) to undertake major mortuary feasts requiring an accumulation of wealth far beyond the limits of its own capacities, as each person (except for true siblings) has a different set of muli relations

that combine to form a dense network of support. The diagram below

summarises a person’s options of creating such links realised through

relationships of mutual ‘help’ as are manifested by the exchange of

‘small gifts’.

The intensity and reliability of muli relationships depends on individual capacities and aspirations. Today, the network of relationships can be further extended thanks to links that are based on individual friendships with ‘strangers’, formed through participation in Christian fellowships, sport teams, secondary schools or during a period of work-

ing abroad. Yet limits are clearly set by the amount of ‘help’ that a person can make available. If someone maintains only loose links with many different places, he or she is perceived as behaving suspiciously

and may be scolded for wasting resources; they may be accused of

having ‘too many friends’.'* 68

Google

]

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges

Diagram 4: Multiple muli relationships of a person Father's father’s

hamlet

Father’s father’s

Mother's father’s

hamlet

Spouse's

hamlet

Ethics of everyday life The ethics of ‘respect’, ‘self-discipline’, and ‘generosity’ are the keys to appropriate behaviour in everyday exchanges.'’ ‘Respect’ refers to the

individual’s position in terms of hierarchy. It is shown by expressing one’s inferiority by means of body language, avoidance of names, and offering ‘small gifts’ whenever possible. In general, older persons and affines have to be shown ‘respect’ at all times. ‘Respect’ is also displayed by deference expressed in spatial terms when visiting someone’s hamlet.

A guest should decline to sit on the veranda of a house and rather ask for a coarse mat to sit on in front of the veranda. He or she should

avoid walking around within the hamlet compound, should ask for a

guide to the toilet area and keep the visit as short as possible. Personal 69

oiatzesty GOC igle

Original from

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

Dobu

names are rarely used to a person’s face as a matter of ‘respect’ because they are conceptualised as the property of a matrilineage and mentioning

them in front of the true ‘owners’ is regarded as imposing, disrespectful

and tantamount to stealing something.'* They are avoided by using

kin terms, nicknames, the place of one’s hamlet, or other terms of

reference, such as ‘my friend’, ‘senior man’, ‘senior woman’, ‘child’

and so forth. The ethic of ‘self-discipline’ enjoins that inner feelings are kept to oneself, no matter whether they are valued negatively, such as greed, lust, anger, pride, envy, shame, or positively, such as happiness, sym-

pathy, or the feeling of being ‘just right and filled up with nice food’. It is impolite in most situations to mention inner feelings. If reprimanded or scolded by someone with more prestige it is appropriate to ‘just stay

quiet’.!? The correct attitude of ‘respect’ requires masking one’s feelings and simply following orders. The self-discipline needed to show ‘respect’ is seen as a personal virtue and senior people often test youths’ capacity to ‘hold back’ before considering them as their heirs.

Behaving correctly in everyday exchanges, it appears, is a difficult

task. People have to decide how to share their limited resources in order to show ‘respect’ even if this requires self-sacrifice. They are also

required to follow the ethic of ‘generosity’ by freely offering others a share, phrasing the offer in a way that is inoffensive. A woman who

offers cooked food to someone should do so by calling out: ‘Come

here and get your food!’ If she does this frequently, she will be praised

as lobwau alena (‘her characteristic is calling others to receive a share’).

Similarly, someone who has just harvested betel nuts and distributes a

lot of them on his way home, or a man who lives at his wife’s place and

often provides his affines with eguyai alena (‘his characteristic calling a child from the hamlet tory, that is) and to hand over

betel nuts and tobacco, is praised as is sharing’). The act is carried out by to come to the path (into neutral territhe gift with the words: ‘Go and give

these betel nuts to the senior man’,

The appropriate attitude of everyday exchanges is one of voluntary

giving without any undertone of superiority or anger. It should be done in a friendly tone, with the head lowered, expressing sympathy and

‘respect’ towards the other, a humble gesture rather than a display of

wealth that would be interpreted as ‘showing-off’. People who do not offer their betel nuts, quality food and tobacco acquire notoriety as 70

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges

being stingy (deba’ose).'* Those who are apt to pay visits when food is being cooked, betel nuts being harvested, or when other resources are

to be divided amongst hamlet members (such as when a dugong has been speared or a group of men has fished with nets), become

the

subjects of gossip for being greedy (giepweula), even if they do not ask

for a gift, as they force the ethic of generosity by their sheer presence.!*

Everyday exchanges are typically performed as ‘demand sharing’, a

practice that requires strategies of asking for and denying gifts while

remaining within the realm of ‘respect’. When

asked, Dobu inform-

ants often state that it is good to follow these rules because only then one can be happy.

Happiness, in this sense, is the result of personal and social ease, a state that can only occur when the balance between giving and keeping is maintained and a person is comfortable in his or her relations of

‘help’, manifested in the exchange of ‘small gifts’. The feeling of contentment, of relaxed happiness might best be described in terms of the simple pleasures of life: basking in the morning sun — a delightful way

to shake off the coldness of the night, sitting in a slight breeze on a hot

day, seeing a full moon lighting up the hamlet, a gentle rain after the

planting of the yams, or a magnificent sunrise after a long night of

feasting. In terms of social life: images of joyful family life come to

mind, of parents or peers sitting and sharing food and betel nuts with

their children, sending them on little missions to the neighbours or into the kitchen, watching the progress of their babies and telling stories

about everyday incidents. In terms of negative definitions, happiness means the absence of tension and anxiety, bodily pain, interpersonal

conflicts and threats. It also includes a notion of ‘good conscience’ (a-

lotona bobo’a- in the sense of ‘good behaviour’, i- bubuna bobo’a-) or

a ‘good name’ (i- ale bobo’a-). A happy person is healthy, has enough food and objects of wealth and a manageable number of reliable relatives, friends and exchange partners. The word for happiness (gwauso’ala) is related to the spine (gwau-) that is strong and capable of bearing (ala) the body upright.”° The spine is also used metaphorically in the word for laziness (gwaugu’itoyase), literally ‘my spine is stiff’, and in the word for excitement (gwau’a’ala), literally ‘the spine is keen to carry its weight’. A

happy person is strong, stands straight in a dignified manner, and works hard. No wonder that happiness is a welcome character trait. In such 71

Google

Dobu

cases people comment on the person as ‘tauna gwauso’ala alena’ (he or she has a happy character), implying that he or she easily returns to a happy state after an upsetting event. Happiness and friendship can be expressed by a certain way of laughing that ends with an exclamation ‘hai’ in a higher pitch. This is called Josaila (literally ‘to tie it up’ or

‘to wind it up’). Happiness in women is associated with the sound of cheerful chatter with losaila exclamations; it is characteristic of youths on the beach at sunset, or of hamlet sisters on a shaded platform watch-

ing their toddlers play.

Happiness is recognised as an emotion, attitude, character trait and

social skill, a telling sign that a person adheres to the principal ethics. A person who bears no grudges when asked for a small gift, who is willing to form friendships is praised as oboboma alena, a genuinely

generous character. A happy person can suffer bodily pain and frus-

trations, share food and remain affable while hungry, all reasons to

praise his or her ‘self-discipline’. A young, happy person is in a better position to cultivate strong ties with senior people by giving them ‘small

gifts’ with a happy face and an appropriately friendly and obedient demeanour when interacting with them. This kind of conduct shows

‘respect’. When old, a happy man (esa’esa) or woman (alawata) is the

living proof of success in life: his or her exchange network would have

been built on ties created in a generous manner, in accord with the

ethics of the exchange of ‘small gifts’.

Strategies of sharing and hiding Early in the morning, the teenage daughter of my friend would come to my house and call through the sago walls: ‘Susanna, my mum asks if

you have some sugar (cooking oil, tea leaf, flour, detergent) for her?” I used to give her some, but after a couple of weeks I asked her if she did

not feel ashamed to come and ask for these things every day. She nodded

but said she was asking on behalf of her mother hence only doing what

she was told to do. The next morning she came over again, this time

saying: ‘Susanna, the greedy one asks for some flour!’ We both laughed. [Field Notes]

It is far more acceptable to exchange items of consumption, especially

betel ingredients, tobacco and food. I have elsewhere analysed the

importance of betel as a symbolic tool of social interaction in Melanesia 72

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges

(Kuehling 1989).2! Giving a betel nut or a piece of tobacco to someone

can have many different meanings on Dobu, depending on the social context. To give a few examples: A gift of friendship (oboboma), causing the recipient to feel gratitude and pleasure, and the giver to feel good in spite of the material loss, through an investment in a future relationship.

A gift out of anger (ta’ona), to humiliate the recipient in front of

others by emphasising an inequality of resources and thus intend-

ing An the her

to cause a reaction of shame and anger. apologetic gift (ta’ona), meant to indicate shame on the part of giver, causing the recipient to feel superior and reducing his or anger.

A gift to demonstrate superiority (gagasa), when the giver hands

the tobacco over in public, so that the recipient has to share it with

everybody and thus in fact receives very little. This makes the giver feel generous and proud, but the recipient feels frustration and even

anger as he is forced into the role of distributor.

A gift to express gratitude for previously given help (lema, lokagutoki, lo’eyawasina, lo’epa’ala or maisa, niaula), releasing the

burden of a debt on the giver’s side and causing emotional reac-

tions according to the recipient’s expectations (depending on the

sufficiency of the repayment).

A gift to express sexual desire (gwaune), either towards the recipi-

ent’s daughter if given by an adolescent boy to her parents or towards a woman when passed over in secret. In the latter case, the

tobacco might contain some ‘love magic’ to enhance the effect that the gift is supposed to have on the recipient. A gift to ask for betrothal, given to the parents of a girl, to be distributed amongst all hamlet dwellers and chewed if they agree

to allow the girl to marry the son of the givers. This gift of betel nuts is wrapped up and accordingly called maginugwa (wrapped

betel nut). If it is not opened and consumed but sent back to the boy’s parents, there will be no marriage; but it is not an insult to

refuse this gift.

Suspicion of adultery (or other clandestine acts) is likely to arise if

cross-sex gifts of betel nuts or tobacco are made too frequently, or if a ‘stranger’ seems too keen to part with a betel nut. In fact, I was often

told not to chew the betel nuts that I was given by certain women. I 73

Google

Dobu had to throw them away, and even in the season of ‘betel nut famine’

my companions did the same. The fear of being killed by poison or magic imbued in the betel nut was even greater than the desire to chew. Asking for a share of food is a far more delicate issue. While it is

gracious to offer a plate of cooked food as long as it contains some protein (fish or pork), it is equally appropriate to politely refuse such a

gift: ‘Oh thank you, but I have eaten already. My stomach is full’. It can be insulting to offer food, especially when there is reason to interpret it as a way of referring to the recipient’s inability to feed his or her family. While the exchange of large yams forms an important part of feasting events, people talk derogatorily about individuals who accept

cooked food from anyone not matrilineally related. According to For-

tune, the planet Venus is called the ‘root of greed’ because it rises early in the evening (when every household is preparing dinner), and peeps

into people’s cooking pots (1932: 228). Although I did not hear this

particular observation, it is certainly true that such behaviour would

immediately stigmatise a person as greedy and rude, perhaps also as a poor gardener who lacks a network of supporters. Edward Schieffelin stated that relationships are not only expressed but also validated and developed through food exchanges (1976: 63); food is the appropriate medium for communicating personal sentiment because it is the basis of human life: ‘Food is closely bound up with conceptions of birth and death, personal strength, sexuality, illness, and the unseen’ (1976: 64). In Dobu, informal food exchanges take

place as ‘small gifts’ of cooked food within the matrilineage only. They are in contrast to formalised exchanges of raw yams that are mainly

used to express relatedness and support. These Big Gifts will be discussed in detail in the next chapter. Men often go fishing at night. If they catch a big fish they are ex-

pected to share it amongst fellow hamlet dwellers before any surplus is taken to the market. The distribution follows an individual pattern according to previous help and gifts received. Stingy as well as greedy people’s households are placed at the end of the distribution and receive only small shares or nothing at all. Sometimes a man is forced to go fishing so as to distribute his catch and avoid being stigmatised. Similarly, the meals that are provided for all helpers after the preparation of a new garden have to be carefully balanced. Such meals should contain some rice and tinned fish or meat, tea with sugar should be

74

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges served afterwards, and some tobacco and betel nuts also have to be

distributed. The helpers will talk about stinginess if the meal was too meagre, bearing in mind the resources of the provisioning family, and

in addition to gossip there might be fewer helpers during the next sea-

son. On the other hand, the host also has to avoid ‘showing-off’ too much wealth, as this would make it hard for the helpers to reciprocate when their gardens are prepared. It is necessary to find a balance which avoids stinginess, greed and arrogance, and gives instead an impres-

sion of true generosity - oboboma. The concept of demand sharing has recently been discussed by

Peterson (1995), based on his studies among the Yolngu people of

Arnhem Land. He points out that altruistic giving rarely occurs among Yolngu because the notion of generosity is not valued as positively as in Western societies. Peterson relates the practice of demand sharing

to an ‘egalitarian logic’ that puts the giver in a higher position than the

receiver, thereby creating ‘inequality by debt’ that puts the debtor on his or her best behaviour (1995: 867). In this sense, demanding can be

understood as a ‘social gift’ that elevates the giver rather than as an act of generosity that satisfies the receiver through the goods he is given.

The ethics of demand sharing on Dobu are more complex than in Peterson’s Aboriginal case. As individuals must behave according to the ethics of ‘respect’, ‘self-discipline’ and ‘generosity’ they often can-

not refuse to share and are left with the vague promise of a return gift

that might never be made. Such cases cause feelings of resentment that

cannot be uttered as a matter of ‘respect’ and because it would show a lack of self-discipline and generosity. In myths, people who demand

too much are doomed to die, as is nicely documented in stories about

the stupid and greedy giant Tolokeketa, a cannibal who is terrified of dogs. In all versions he dies in the end.” This particular story is well

known in Dobu and often told as a past-time in the evenings:

Two children went and collected seafood every day. They brought their yams and a clay pot with them and cooked their food on the beach.

Tolokeketa smelled the food and approached the children. ‘Show me what you are cooking!’ he demanded. He smelled the pot and said: ‘This food is not good!’ Then he quickly ate it all by himself. The same thing happened every day and the children became very upset and

hungry. It went on like this for some time until the children grew really tired of Tolokeketa. They took a small dog with them and when the 75

Google

Dobu

giant approached them, demanding their food, the dog barked and Tolokeketa ran away in fright. The children followed him to his house,

where he was hiding with his wife. They had collected a lot of a grass

called weniayuyuna that looks like a small dog’s tail and fixed it all around the house. Tolokeketa and his wife wanted to leave after some time, but the grass was moving in the wind. They believed that their house was surrounded by dogs and did not dare to go outside. They could not go to the toilet nor could they get food and so they starved to

death. When they were dead, the children came back and burned the house. [Field Notes]

In an exaggerated way, this story sheds light on the etiquette of asking. Firstly, it is wrong to demand too much and too frequently. Secondly,

children should not be obliged to share things as they are not fully responsible for what they have and what they do. To a certain degree, they are allowed to be greedy and selfish, to keep what they have and

to refuse to share amongst themselves. The children could not refuse Tolokeketa’s demand for reasons of politeness towards older persons and they had to control their anger and hunger while watching him eat all their food. Eventually they took their apt revenge, not only getting rid of the uninvited guest at their meals but punishing the ogre,

Tolokeketa, and his wife by starving them to death.

The behaviour of the two children in cooking all their fish on the

beach and attempting to eat it by themselves without sharing it with

their households is not regarded as morally wrong, but when they were

discovered by Tolokeketa they were forced to share. Bambi Schieffelin describes similar conduct among Kaluli: ‘Eating stealthily and alone is

not social and is negatively evaluated, but it happens. What really matters is not getting caught doing it’ (1990: 164). I criticised our

hamlet children’s greedy behaviour during a feast, when they heaped as much food as they possibly could onto their plates only to take most

of it back to their houses, so that those children who had smaller plates

received less food and those who did not rush to grab the choicest

pieces were left without pork. The response of the adults was uniform:

‘Yes, that is their cold food for later, what is wrong with that?’ In line with this principle, children are often sent to do the shop-

ping, to ask neighbours for betel nuts, sugar, tea and kerosene. For them it is less shameful to ask, even if they are already too old to be permitted to display greediness, because they do so in a parent’s name 76

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges

(‘Sorry, my mum asks for a little sugar for our tea tonight’). The derogatory terms for one who asks too much are not used of children. To send a child is also a way of allowing room for a denial of the plea

by telling a small lie (‘Sorry, already finished!’). Apart from these reasons, children are also sent because the adults are either too busy pre-

paring the dinner or hosting guests, or simply too tired to go and ask around. Objects of use value like canoes (waga), fishing nets (gomana), tools

for gardening or woodwork, shoes and other clothes, bags and baskets, are normally owned by each household and are not shared on an

everyday basis. When the need for an object cannot be met by a household, it is appropriate to ask a member of one’s matrilineage for it. If someone borrows a canoe, a favour called wagasaune, it is good man-

ners to compensate the owner with a return gift called ‘to wash the canoe’ (loutui waga), consisting of a share of the fish that was caught,

or the food that was transported when it was borrowed. Similarly, if someone

borrows a fishing net (gomanasaune), the resulting gift is

called loutui gomana. The owner of a canoe or fishing net normally worries about the good care of his possession when lending it out, because he cannot expect a replacement if something is broken. For

the same reason, modern tools, dinghies, clothes or shoes are prefer-

ably not lent out at all.?3 When in the field I learned quickly that it is easy to learn how to

give away but more difficult to keep things for oneself. The only way

to keep desired objects is to avoid being asked for them. There are

different strategies ethical requirement and has to be done something and the

to avoid being asked to share without breaking the of generosity, because to refuse is a delicate matter very subtly. Adults feel ashamed when they ask for shame can grow into acute embarrassment if the

request is rejected in an inappropriate way. This embarrassment will then almost certainly turn into anger, which cannot be displayed in front of the person, but will generate gossip about stinginess and lack of respect. As a result one can expect revenge through witchcraft or

sorcery.

When Istayed in Esa’ala to recuperate from an attack of malaria, the

neighbours of the German volunteer constantly begged him for goods

and betel nuts. One day I became really annoyed about this and used a

very strong expression in reply to the neighbour’s request for sugar:

77

Google

Dobu ‘O/ata o’ata (I feel disturbed, I am sick of it)’. I was surprised, but this word effectively stopped her from begging altogether. She must have

realised that I was familiar with the propriety of everyday exchange and subsequently felt too ashamed to misbehave. [Field Notes]

This example shows that there are limits to demand sharing and

methods to avoid it, but I would not have risked uttering this rejection

while on Dobu, fearing suppressed hostility and negative effects on my

work due to the likely response that I was rejecting the person and not

the demand. It would also have created the impression that I was a person who lacked the virtues of generosity and self-discipline, a greedy dimdim

without ‘respect’. While on Dobu, I tried to adhere to the

ethics and I learned practical methods of hiding wealth. Shopping is preferably done after sunset when purchased goods can be concealed under a T-shirt. This is not a recent ploy, as women used to pack the more desirable garden crops at the bottom of their baskets, using smaller yams or a cover of banana leaves on top. Simi-

larly, handbags normally have two small side pockets (called tana

natuna, literally ‘the child of the bag’) that can be used to hide items

like tobacco and betel ingredients.” Hiding can also be practised by putting a small amount into a second container which can then be

shown to anyone asking: ‘Sorry but I only have this little bit and cannot share it!’25 As a further strategy, it can be claimed that the spare sugar, kerosene, tobacco has been given to a particular, respectable

elder who had asked earlier.

Many times when I gave something nice to a friend, the watch, T-shirt, laplap* or whatever, was hurriedly taken home and I never

saw it used, although teenagers especially are very keen to possess shoes,

fancy jackets, hair pins, jewellery, blue jeans, and black T-shirts. They actually did wear these things, but only at night for disco parties. At first I was amazed that Dobu youth put on so many clothes for a dance

while I would prefer to of the tropical night as stood that the occasion to display all their nice

undress to a certain extent because of the heat well as for reasons of fashion. Later I underof a dance is the only legitimate one for them gear.2” To wear such clothes in daytime would

be ‘showing-off’, an attitude which is morally acceptable only among small children. Toddlers are said to be ‘gagasa aled?’ (their habit is to

show-off) when they proudly show their tricks. When a child reaches an age where she or he can talk, however, any such behaviour is stopped 78

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges

with a harsh voice: ‘Ya, gagasa tua!’ (‘Hey, stop showing off!’)?®

The house is an almost perfect hiding place because it should never

be entered by anyone but its inhabitants. A less safe place where goods

are often hidden is the kitchen, usually a separate hut next to the house.

Inside the kitchen, cutlery and cooking tools are stored as well as empty baskets that were received at a mortuary exchange and have to be

refilled and returned at some later stage as maisa or aga (return gift). Small objects, like tobacco, are preferably hidden underneath the lay-

ers of the sago roof in either house or kitchen. Another method of hiding is to claim that the desired object does not belong to oneself and hence cannot be shared. This tactic is commonly used for pigs if they are to be sold for money (mani bawena) instead of being exchanged

with delayed reciprocity (utuwa bawena). A typical refusal to lend a pig for a feast is, therefore: ‘I am really sorry. This pig belongs to my brother/son/father, it is ‘his market’ (ina maketi) and I have to get this

amount of money for it’.

Since my departure I have received many letters from Dobu friends,

almost all of them ending with a request to send some gifts, such as

clothes, money, or a watch. Communication per se for the sake of

keeping in touch and exchanging news is a foreign concept, just as most communications on Dobu begin with a mutual request for ingre-

dients for betel chewing. One of my friends finally wrote that since I

had met all his requests he would now stop writing to me, which he did. As I acted as a

‘true sister’ to another friend, she wrote that she

would not feel ashamed to ask me for things and would write letters to

me ‘until the day I die’. My generosity was proven through meeting many such requests. I am still not very skilled in hiding, but I know

that my presents (/ema) are remembered in order to be reciprocated in different ways if I should ever pay another visit to Dobu.

Behind the facade — conflict and consolidation Everyday life on Dobu tests a person’s social skills in co-operating

within the network of support. Required to be generous and selfdisciplined, individuals constantly face the difficulty of obligatory sharing and the desire to keep for oneself. The way a person acts in everyday exchanges gives evidence of her or his character, while at the same time such conduct is also used to express interpersonal tensions 79

Google

Dobu

that are caused by incidents only marginally related to exchanges. As it

is inappropriate to mention one’s inner feelings (of sexual jealousy, for example),

exchange

conduct is often used as a rhetorical way

of

criticising someone. In this light, it is even more important to have an

immaculate record of being helpful and friendly, of having the stamina

to suffer inconvenience without complaint. If a person disrupts the

peaceful facade of hamlet life by being openly aggressive, by gossiping,

by committing adultery, such acts are usually interpreted as revealing a lack of self-discipline. They are openly criticised in terms of bad

conduct in exchanges: as greediness, stinginess, laziness, or selfishness.” Sahlins identified the importance of ‘diplomacy’ in exchange:

In the absence of external guarantees, as of a Sovereign Power, peace

must be otherwise secured: ... most significantly, by the terms of

exchange itself. The economic ratio is a diplomatic manoeuvre. [1972: 302]

As individuals are not equally skilled diplomats, or fail in their attempts

to gain benefit from an exchange event, the concept of compensation remains as a way to solve a conflict. With regard to material objects, compensation can be granted with a replacement of the loss. When

personal feelings have been hurt, a symbolic apology is needed as compensation. The apologetic gift on Dobu is called ta’ona (literally ‘we speak’).

The ta’ona gift clarifies mines the person who dispute or quarrel, and place, when silence and

the positions of parties to a conflict and deterhas to apologise. It puts an official end to a it is only when this settlement does not take conspicuous friendliness are the overt signs of

conflict, that sorcery and witchcraft are expected to be employed for

retribution. As such, the ‘small gifts’ of ta’ona can improve social relationships and restore one’s good reputation and peace of mind. Fortune minted the image of ‘the Dobuan’ as ‘individualistic and

quarrelsome’ (1932: 279). Yet, according to my observations, overt

conflicts are rare, as is physical violence. Communal life, however, naturally generates and sustains a plethora of conflicts. As criticism is usually phrased in terms of exchange conduct, strategies of reconcilia-

tion also require gifts to be made as an appropriate form of apology.

The most common way of apologising between people who are engaged in a relationship of mutual ‘help’ is by giving ta’ona. While its 80

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges

literal meaning suggests a process of speaking about a problem, talk

usually remains at the edge of the underlying source of conflict, on the level of conduct in everyday exchanges. Ta’ona often succeeds, how-

ever, in defusing tension by satisfying an offended person with an apol-

ogy and a gift.

Rather than freely discussing interpersonal problems, people use

ta’ona gifts to express either anger or apology. As in Kiriwina, ‘objects are used to avoid “hard words” ’ (Weiner 1984: 172). The following

account gives an example of the way such gifts are presented.

Moni had asked me for some tobacco, as she wanted to clear the air between herself and a senior affine (Kaibado). He seemed to be sulky

for a few weeks after she had made some silly comments regarding his

asking me for tobacco. She had made these comments when she was disappointed that I had given the last of my supply to him and not to

her. But he had not reacted at all, merely signalled through his withdrawal that he was angry. I stood at some distance when she

approached him on his veranda, and watched her very politely hand

over the gift of tobacco and mutter a few phrases. Then she left him,

knowing that his anger would cool when smoking the tobacco. He told

me afterwards that Moni had said she was sorry for talking about him,

and that she wished to (apologise) ta’ona with the gift of tobacco.

Proudly he added that she was scared of his anger because he was a knowledgeable man (in terms of sorcery, as I understood). [Field Notes]

Gifts of ta’ona thereby enable individuals to consolidate relationships

before a conflict escalates. These gifts vary in size and value, depending

on the relative harm caused by the offender. A dog’s bite should be compensated with a small gift, like 20 toea, a few betel nuts, one stick

of tobacco, and some words of apology (for example, ‘I hope that it will heal soon; this dog is bad; I should kill it; I am sorry for you’). In a similar way, people who have been affected by a disease-inflicting

spell on property (tabu) can have the disease removed by means of a counter spell (Joulasa). In such cases, the offender has to give a ta’ona

gift and apologise for his trespass in order to satisfy the owner of the

tabu spell. Fortune appears to refer to such incidents of ta’ona when

he describes a form of magic that he called putautaona (1932: 145).° ‘Small gifts’ Everyday exchanges of ‘small gifts’ are expressions of individual agency 81

Google

Dobu

in creating and maintaining networks of support. Options for the ‘paths’ (eda) of these gifts (to use a common

Massim term) usually follow

patterns of kinship, the matrilineage, totemic clan affiliation, paternal

and affinal relations. The ethics of exchange determine the way these ‘paths’ are used. Although people appear to have a considerable amount

of choice in the way they shape their networks, moral rules circumscribe

the freedom of individuals as they sanction ‘bad conduct’ by blocking certain ‘paths’. From a Dobu perspective, these ‘paths’ exist quite literally because the ethic of ‘staying at home and minding one’s own business’ (called

miabaula) prohibits spatial movement without proper reason. For this

reason most people on Dobu have never climbed to the top of the volcano (Gulebubu) that dominates the island, nor have they visited

the hot springs in the west. Land that belongs to other matrilineages or totemic clans must not be trespassed upon unless its owners have given

explicit permission to do so. Hamlets must not be entered unless there is someone in particular to visit. In this light, the actual paths that

individuals can use depend on their networks. Paths are only used with

good reason (or excuse), and people constantly justify their movements

when passing close to other hamlets; for example ‘we [excl.] go and see our secondary garden’. The frequent exchange of ‘small gifts’ that is another typical element of any excursion gives legitimacy to movements in space as they demonstrate good intentions on both sides. Seniority is an important factor in regard to a person’s universe.

With age, individuals gain additional options of networking, as their children, spouses and grandchildren all have their own ‘paths’ that may be used once relationships of ‘help’ have been established. Both

men and women engage in the exchange of ‘small gifts’, and although

their ‘work’ is different there is no gender bias. Men, however, typically spend more time moving between hamlets, the sea, gardens and the bush, as they have obligations towards their sister’s children as

well as to their own household that require them to go fishing, collect-

ing firewood and building materials. Women, in contrast, typically

spend most of their time in their hamlet of residence and the gardens. If they go fishing in the afternoon, they usually remain close to the

shore. Their ‘work’ of caring for the children, not a lack of ‘paths’,

restricts their movements.

As people attempt to live a life in peace, wealth and harmony, they

82

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges

choose particular ‘paths’ in their individual network by investing their ‘work’. These paths depend on individual agency, constructed in terms

of ‘respect’, self-discipline and generosity. They are maintained on an everyday basis through gifts of betel chewing ingredients, tobacco, fish,

garden produce (except for yam seeds), and labour. As such gifts are of minimal value and occur frequently, it is difficult to memorise all one’s

debts and although there is no rule of exact reciprocity concerning

‘small gifts’, the notions of ‘stinginess’, ‘laziness’ and ‘greediness’ pro-

vide apt reasons to express dissatisfaction when feeling exploited. To avoid stigmatising comments, individuals are expected to give more ‘small gifts’ than they receive in order to be characterised as ‘well mannered’.

I am not convinced by M. Strathern’s argument concerning relational ‘states’ or ‘unities’ of ‘Melanesian persons’: ‘Social life consist in a constant movement from one state to another, from one type of sociality to another, from a unity (manifested collectively or singly) to

that unity split or paired with respect to another’ (1988: 13). This perspective is also reflected in Battaglia’s analysis of ‘portable wealth’ as a ‘social person’s detachable,

concretely projectable selves’

(1990: 84). Although positive relations are the desired effect of every-

day exchanges, persons are far more concerned with their image in terms of ethics than with the actual bonding that results from the giving, keeping, receiving or rejecting of gifts. They act out ‘respect’ and generosity, often sacrificing their own desires and consciously mask-

ing their true thoughts and feelings, because a gift is only worth the

material loss if it contributes to an assessment of being a ‘good person’. I would argue that in this way individuals do not project or split

their ‘selves’. A person rather keeps his or her ‘inside’ hidden while

giving away minor objects, ‘small gifts’. Rather than changing their

states, persons are motivated by intentions to generate more individual

space (‘paths’).

Such ‘paths’ differ in quality depending on various factors. Although based on relations of kinship and prescribed behaviour for everyday

exchanges, in practice notions of age (‘respect’), co-residence (‘being used to one another’) and individual compatibility (character traits,

ale-), emerge as the critical elements. Friendship is an important consideration when ‘small gifts’ are concerned, as persons choose among

their options, establishing closer links with individuals they like.

83

Google

Dobu

Everyday exchanges, however, are typically informal and undepen-

dable. The ‘paths’ that a person wishes to use for political strategies need to be stabilised by formal exchanges on a higher level, consisting of wealth that symbolises a person’s influence and success in networking as proof of his or her ‘good’ character. The following chapters will focus on these more elaborate forms of exchange, beginning with an analysis of the importance of large yams, kula shells and pigs. Notes 1

w

2 4

See also M. Rosaldo (1980: 78) and Peterson (1995: 864) for similar concepts of ‘sharing or hiding’. See Macintyre for a similar observation on Tubetube (1988: 193). Strathern calls these bonds ‘looking after’ relationships (1988: 148). I continue to use Fortune’s term ‘owners’ as synonymous with toni asa. Ownership, however, is a concept that needs to be qualified. On Dobu, it

5

means ‘belonging to something’ rather than ‘having absolute rights over something’, and only senior ‘owners’ who over the years have proven their personal capacities gain a high degree of authority as esa’esa or alawata.

See also Thune for a critical view of Fortune’s statement that ‘Dobuan’ residence is alternating (1980:

181). Macintyre’s

account of Tubetube

6

residence reveals the same pattern that I found on Dobu (1993: 54). I was once told that uxorilocal residence is preferable because it prevents

7

To be precise, the terms mean ‘same-sex-sibling’ (tasi-) and ‘opposite-sex-

8

Senior affines of high standing can even act as leaders of a hamlet. Until

‘brothers from fighting’ and helps to maintain matrilineage harmony.

sibling’ (nus-).

about the 1960s, exchanges between a couple’s hamlets were the keys to their social position as affines. See appendix 2 for a list of ‘names of gifts’

for such affinal exchanges. 9

See Kelly (1968), however, for a structuralist perspective of the exchange

of women on Dobu based on Lévi-Strauss (1949). 10 Dobu people state that the knowledge of determining one’s clan by looking

at the palm lines is more elaborate on Kiriwina. See also Schlesier for a

more detailed analysis of palm lines in Me’udana (1983: 26-7). Macintyre

reports that her palm lines served as a post hoc explanation for her adoption

into the magisubu clan (1993: 51). 11 In this context, ‘work’ refers to participation in mortuary feasting.

12 But see Thune (1980: 143); Young (1993: 9-10) for Normanby Island. 13 See also Bourdieu’s distinction between ‘official’ and ‘practical’ kin

(1977: 34ff).

84

Google

Paths and Patterns of Everyday Exchanges

14 This censorious attitude put an emotional burden on my own fieldwork. 15 For a similar perspective from Goodenough Bay see Kahn (1980: 102ff). 16 Children are usually given a name from their matrilineage that the father

cannot mention. He gives them a second name which might be from his matrilineage and hence to be used only by him and his matrilineage. If the

child has been given a name from his father’s side he or she might become

his replacement (lo’epa’elu) after his death. However, this option depends on the agreement of the two matrilineages concerned. 17 This ethic might have contributed to Fortune’s impression of Dobuans as being ‘dour’ (1932: 250). 18 Roheim also discusses notions of stinginess and wealthiness in Duau

(1950a: 180). 19 See also Battaglia for a discussion of the notion of prospective shame on Sabarl in relation to demand sharing and as ‘working against the collapse of critical cultural distinctions’ such as seniority (1990: 136ff).

20 The latter part of the word, so’ala, has been translated as ‘fury’ or ‘chaos’ in connection with the word for anger, gamwaso’ala (Edoni 1989: 37). But

my Dobu informants denied this etymology.

21 Battaglia describes elaborate strategies of Sabarl people to ask her for a share of tobacco (1990: 75-6).

22 He is said to be originally from Sanaroa Island though his bones and fireplace can still be seen at a place on the south of Fergusson Island. 23 See Kulick for a similar observation in the Sepik area (1992: 48). 24 See Foster for a similar practice among the Tanga in New Ireland (1993: 25); also Kahn (1986: 42-4). 25 I admit this was my favourite line while in the field. 26 Laplap is the Tok Pisin term for loin cloth. 27 Lutz observed a similar attitude on Ifaluk: ‘The person who leaves valuable Possessions out in view of visitors is to blame when someone becomes

“excited/jealous” (bosu) as an inevitable result. The host in such a case would be criticized by saying that he or she was “showing off” (gabosu),

or, literally, “causing excitement/jealousy” * (1988: 103).

28 One evening, as I walked on the beach of Losina I made some funny jumps

out of a sudden joy of life. Landing on a sharp rock, I lost one of my toenails. The pain as well as the overall reaction were sobering: ‘E’ina,

gagasa manuna’’ (That serves you right for showing off!)

29 A lazy woman can be referred to as to’abisida (literally, ‘person-to-buildrequests’), an interesting term if compared to the word for an industrious

woman, to’abi’uma (person-to-build-yam-seeds); see also Bromilow

(1910: 472-73).

8s

Google

Dobu 30 The term does not exist in Dobu language and Fortune probably misunderstood the phrase ‘# ta u ta’ona’ (you go you ta’ona). To my knowledge, this practice would be most unusual. Some informants believed it to be

impossible.

86

Google

Chapter 4

Bic GIFTS AND THE CLAIM TO FAME Name of the gift: bebai (yams), ’une (pigs and shell valuables)

The old man was close to death when he called his sister’s son. ‘My nephew, what are the most important things in life?” The young man

waited. ‘I tell you, the most important things (‘big things’) are bebai

and “une. Don’t forget my words!” [Field Notes]

The last chapter focused on everyday exchanges in relation to ‘work’, personal networking strategies, ethics, and emotions.

Now

my

discussion shifts to another exchange category, to pigs, and kula shell

valuables, called une and big yam

tubers, bebai. The latter are an

essential part of any presentation of ’une. These gifts carry a complex symbolic meaning; they are ‘big things’ (yage sinabwadi), a term thatI translate as Big Gifts. The ‘work’ of achieving them (by doing kula, mortuary feasting, gardening and caring), is built on the notion of being

‘good’ and ‘strong’. Big Gifts are symbols of this ‘work’: of a person’s wealth, of being socially connected, of social skills, of secret knowledge,

in short, of authority. Clearly, the complexity of social and personal life in the process of the exchange of Big Gifts is more than just the

‘love of exchange’ (Fortune 1932: 193, 205, 206).

Distinguished from the material wealth of everyday use that people often attempt to hide, ’ue are publicly inspected, and often praised.' Unlike the usual way of packing baskets (with the best things at the bottom), when muwali and bagi are carried the larger ones are packed on top and the smaller ones underneath. Similarly, the biggest tubers

of bebai are placed on top of the basket. In spite of the fear of ‘envy’, Big Gifts need to be publicly displayed to have the desired effect. By circulating, bebai and ’une personify their managers and reflect on the

history of the many givers and receivers and the links between them.

Bourdieu uses the metaphor of ‘social alchemy’,? based on the Maussian notion of the gift as a symbol for the investment of time,

care, material wealth, and labour. For Bourdieu, the process of gift-

giving transforms overt domination into legitimate authority, the ‘gift’ into emotions, and economic capital into symbolic capital:

87

Google

Dobu Wastage of money, energy, time, and ingenuity is the very essence of the social alchemy through which an interested relationship is transmuted into a disinterested, gratuitous relationship, overt domination into misrecognized, ‘socially recognized’ domination, in other words, legitimate authority. The active principle is the labour, time, care, attention, and savoir-faire which must be squandered to produce a personal gift irreducible to its equivalent in money, a present in which what counts is not so much what you give as the way you give it... [1977: 192]

The value of this ‘personal gift’, as Bourdieu calls it, is created through

labour and performance (‘the way you give it’), a transformation of relations through the symbolism of giving and receiving. For Bourdieu,

fundamental emotions like shame and pride can be translated into a

concept of honour that operates on the basis of shame (1990: 100-1).

In fact, honour might be the driving force for exchange in many societies

(as it is in Kabyle). This concept of honour does not ring true in the

Melanesian context, however, where shame and pride appear to be

core emotions with regard to exchanges of Big Gifts: ‘in the dynamic

and highly individualistic world of New

Guinea, where a man is

encouraged to be combative and self-assertive, shame is clearly coupled

with pride’ (Epstein 1984: 49). From a Massim perspective, motives for exchanging Big Gifts are linked to the concept of fame. As Weiner stresses for Trobriand kula exchange: .. the difference between one player and another is inscribed in a

meaningful framework recognized as ‘fame’. The authentication of fame

legitimates a person’s right to win over others’ losses and to be ranked as a winner in a coterie of equals — with the highest honor, ranking in

the coterie of those who traffic with chiefs. [1992: 145]

On Tubetube, an expression links fame to ‘thunder’ (Macintyre 1995: 39), while in Dobu the word for fame, ale, is synonymous with ‘name’, or ‘report’, but also with ‘base’, ‘source’, or ‘cause’ (Dixon n.d.: 11). In

its adverbial form, ale-, it refers to notions of character and personality,

as I have shown. In this light, Big Gifts build up a person’s personality

or ‘name’ by creating a ‘report’ of fame. This fame translates itself into notions of domination and leadership, as shown in Young’s analysis

of competitive exchanges (abutu) on Goodenough (1971: 257ff) and it is interesting to note that the term abutu is a compound of a (food)

88

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame and butu (fame, literally ‘noise’). Big Gifts are manifestations of relations

of obligation and indebtedness among the persons who negotiate the

process of managing them while at the same time creating links between

those who publicly exchange them.

Big Gifts are symbols of fame, strategically employed by big men

and women. Not only the process of giving and taking, but also the accumulation, production and management of Big Gifts are related to the notion of fame. In an example from Sabarl (Louisiades), Battaglia

describes how a married couple in need of extra yams for an unexpected feast avoids the shame of asking for food by undertaking a trip to the husband’s overseas exchange partner to ‘look for a pig’ while simultaneously bartering for yams. In this manner, the shameful subsistence journey is transformed into a journey ‘in search of fame’ and wealth (Battaglia 1990: 141).

The exchange of Big Gifts is accompanied by strong emotions that

depend on the value of the gift, the manner of presentation, and the

relational context. In individual relationships, bebai and ‘une may be used as ‘signs of love’ or given as expressions of gratitude to a very close friend, muli, paternal or affinal relative. In contrast, they can

also express or evoke powerful feelings of anger, shame, and resentment. Weiner’s observation in Kiriwina, that objects are used to avoid

‘hard words’, and that ‘anger may always be expressed in yams’ (1984:

172), has to be qualified from a Dobu perspective, where the presenta-

tion of a Big Gift is the only legitimate opportunity to be aggressive in

public speeches, the only context in which ‘hard words’ can be de-

ployed as a social weapon. In his essay on the experience of shame in Melanesia, Epstein distinguishes between the psychoanalytical dimension of shame (as a ‘response to the exposure of one’s inadequacies in measuring up to the self-imposed standards of the ego-ideal’), and social aspects of shame as an affective dimension of the transmission of cultural values (1984: 49). Shame is a mechanism of negative feedback that works both on

the individual and on an inter-subjective level, intertwining self-reflection and consciousness of others’ views of oneself. Gift-giving as a

shaming technique builds upon general cultural values. It makes the

recipient aware of his or her difficulties in returning the gift, thereby

undermining self-esteem. It also obliges the recipient to budget for the return gift. More than once I observed the stress a person feels if he or 89

Google

Dobu

she is expected to give Big Gifts without immediate access to them. It is aclear sign of incompetence if one cannot organise a Big Gift, a shameful experience that is internalised by everybody as a personal flaw. Big Gifts change people’s feelings: Dobu people say that a gift can pierce like a spear (gita) and ‘put shame’ on the receiver.

Self-deprivation is clearly a positive attitude in Dobu, practiced on

an everyday basis as the ethic of alamai’ita, a proof of a person’s strong character and respect for the rules of interaction. In terms of gender,

women are regarded as the masters of alamai’ita due to their silent ‘work’ during childbirth. The Big Gift for a new mother (loduwaduwa)

acknowledges her ‘work’ of giving birth. It is associated with her pain

and self-control and gives the woman a feeling of pride. I have translated the term for ‘pride’, gwauso’ala, as ‘happiness’ in Chapter 3. It is

significant that for Dobu people there is a distinction to be made between legitimate happiness and pride, gwauso’ala, and boasting, arrogance and pride, gagasa.

As in other societies of the southern Massim, women are intensely

involved in the exchange of Big Gifts. Yams are under the total control

of women, an important factor in gender equality, if not female domi-

nation. Being a woman is no handicap in terms of personal decision

making. Lepowsky states for Vanatinai that ‘women participate fully

and equally in the same exchange system as men’ (1994: 210). This is not entirely the case on Dobu, where women have exclusive rights over the distribution of yams but often leave the oratory of gift exchange to senior men. The Big Gift needs to be ‘decorated’ with bunches of banana and betel nuts, and under certain conditions it has to be accompanied by at least one clay pot full of mona pudding, made from flour (or banana) dumplings in coconut cream. These gifts are provided and prepared by men. Cooked yams with some meat or fish (buyo) are another important gift made exclusively by women.

Dobu women’s participation in the kula exchange, a fact that was

denied by Fortune (1932: 214), depends on the same qualifications as men’s: in the first instance, selection as the proper heir due to ‘good’

character traits and conduct. Most women would rather stand aside and let their male elders speak on their behalf. If a woman is a ‘talkative’ person by character or the senior person of the hamlet, or if special circumstances make her wish to present a case by herself she is fully entitled to do so, but most women claim that they would feel ‘too 90

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame shy’ to speak publicly. In Keane’s sense, women share the ‘agency’ of gift exchange yet often do not appear as ‘speakers’ (1997: 139f). ‘Working’ for wealth

Control over valuables is regarded as a result of ‘work’. Not only are

Big Gifts acquired through ‘work’, but the process of giving them is

also regarded as ‘work’, as an examination of semantics reveals. The term ‘une for armshells (muwali), necklaces (bagi), and pigs (bawe) also

refers directly to the ceremonial distribution of pork and yams from a platform during mortuary feasting (bwabwale, dugumalala and sagali). ’Une encompasses the exchange objects as well as the act of exchange. Thune, in his translation of kune (the Duau version of ’une) as ‘formally

distributed or exchanged goods’ (1980: 201), ignores the aspect of presentation, while Macintyre uses kune (’une) as an untranslated verb (1983c: 374).

Inheritance of ‘une depends on personal characteristics and general

conduct. Among all those young men and women who are entitled to be heirs, a big man or woman chooses the one who has been a friendly

and obedient helper in the past. The quality of obedience is particu-

larly important: to ‘listen properly’ to the elder’s words, to follow or-

ders promptly and to keep one’s own comments to oneself. Only if both attitude and physical work accomplished are satisfactory, will the youth be praised as ‘hardworking’. It follows that kula valuables are tokens of authority earned by ‘work’, no matter whether they are transmitted within the matrilineage or from father to child. The heir to

a person’s main valuables is seen as his or her ‘replacement’ and as-

sumes all the obligations, debts and credits of the deceased, in affinal affairs as well as in kula. The production of Big Gifts is also referred to as ‘work’. Raising pigs, harvesting and managing large yams, ‘decorating’ kula valuables with beads and shells — all are considered to be ‘work’ that requires positive recognition if performed for someone else: Kaibado told me to get some flour, sugar, tobacco, and betelnuts. He

cooked mona pudding, his daughter and I prepared a clay pot of cooked

yams (bebai) and fish, and we walked up to see Lakatani. He had finished

the improvement of the decorations of my bagi (named Diamani) and

Kaibado’s mwali (named Asayesi). We sent Wendy (aged 7) to run and 91

Google

Dobu tell Lakatani that we were on our way. When we arrived, we put the

gifts of cooked food on the ground and Lakatani’s wife, Ruth, took

them inside the kitchen. Lakatani was sitting on his veranda, the bagi

and muwali in a bag next to him. Kaibado handed the tobacco and betel over and formally thanked him for the work of improving the kula

valuables. He passed them over to Kaibado, who had a quick look at them and thanked again. We smoked and chewed quickly and went back at dusk. [Field Notes]

On the level of exchange practice, ‘work’ is used as a general term for the entire activity of exchanging Big Gifts, in mortuary feasting as well

as in the kula and (formerly) in marriage exchanges. The reason for

this equation is founded on the hardships, the self-discipline of preparing, assembling, transporting, delivering, and subsequently

parting from it for the time being. This ‘work’, however, creates the

emotional environment of the exchange. The givers are physically tired, sad at parting with the precious yams and their ‘une, feeling inhibited and strange in a foreign hamlet. But they do not show these feelings; they practice alamai’ita (self-control) and pretend to be relaxed and

unconcerned. Only the speaker of the delegation expresses emotions, displays strength and superiority. In this regard, Big Gifts always convey

some degree of antagonism, and always cause some feeling of shame. It depends on the actual context, the individual relationships involved, the type of Big Gift, and the exchange event itself, how the transaction is shaped. I will return to this point after discussing the different

valuables that are used as Big Gifts.

Yam - the root of women’s power

Yam production is aimed at a balance between food for consumption (masula) and large tubers (bebai) for presentations. Women

are the

sovereign owners of their yam houses, where they store the yams for

up to ten months (July to April), until the new harvest. The yam houses of a hamlet are grouped together in a peripheral space between the

hamlet and the bush. They form ‘the hamlet of the yams’ (bebai idi asa), related to the idea of yams being ‘people’ (tomota). In Dobu language, yam houses are called ‘food houses’ (anua masula), as yam

is perceived as the ultimate vegetable food. This second term underplays the fact that yam houses also contain a powerful tool for symbolic

92

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame interaction: the stored tubers, deployed as ‘baskets of yams’ (kodo) on

all occasions of formal exchange. Without these ‘baskets’, no exchange can take place, and it has reputedly happened that women halted the

preparations for a feast by denying the supply of bebai — either cooked

for guests as buyo or raw in baskets of between eight and twelve tubers.

‘Women classify and sort the harvest product, making piles of different categories, with different ownership, and for different purposes.

The senior owner of a yam house decides on how to use the harvested crop. Her daughters will have their own yam houses when they start individual households. Men have no yam houses of their own, but keep special piles of yams in the yam houses of their mother, sister, wife, daughter, or other favoured female relative. Men’s access to their

piles of yams is dependent on the agreement of the owner of the yam house. The knowledge of growing yams is complex, and both men and women acquire a lifetime of experience in their respective tasks. Men are expected to do the heavy work of clearing and burning the bush and the organisation and shaping of the actual garden, when branches

and sticks are laid out to form single garden plots, separated by vertical borders. Women also assist in these tasks, but leave it to the men to

climb tween use of tober

trees and cut off branches. Gardening plots are distributed bethe households of those hamlet members who wish to share the this particular garden. New gardens are prepared between Ocand December. Men and women hold communal work meet-

ings, and while some of the landowner’s female relatives stay behind

and cook food for the helpers, the men dig the planting holes and the women plant the yam seeds. The senior woman of the matrilineage

treats the seeds with a secret liquid and decides which seed is to be planted in which hole by throwing them onto the mounds of loose soil. Once the yam vines reach a certain length, sometime in December,

each shoot is led onto a small stick (sakwala). Four to eight plants are

directed to grow onto one sturdy stick (ebudi) in the middle of each

plot. Asa rule an equal number of plants of each type of yam (kwateya

and siakutu or sogege) are planted. The women weed the garden, while

men take care of banana plants that grow at its edge. By March, the ebudi stick is overgrown with vines and the women remove the old withered seed from the planting hole. The gardener gains an initial impression of the prospective yield of the new harvest and can adjust 93

Google

Dobu

her management policies accordingly. The two varieties of yams

(Dioscorea alata and D. esculenta) have some distinctive features. Generally speaking, kwateya is regarded as tastier, easier to harvest and

peel, and its typically large tubers are valued more highly than siakutu.* Yam gardening is regarded as women’s work in terms of weeding,

constant supervision, and harvest. Married men are expected to join

their wives’ daily trip to the garden, looking for firewood and clearing

the space around the garden. Some men do plant yams, but only the

long shaped subvarieties of kwateya. The previous year’s gardens, called yakwala (‘year’) supply households with manioc, plantain bananas,

pitpit, and other crops of more recent introduction like maize, snake beans, pumpkin, and pineapples.’

My data on specific aspects of gardening is not as detailed as other

accounts of the area (see Digim’Rina 1995: 82ff), as it was rarely pos-

sible for me to assist in gardening activities. Fortune complained of a similar problem during his fieldwork (1932: 104). However, my principal interest in gardening in this monograph relates to the symbolic

importance of yams as a medium of exchange. Men and women ideally work together for subsistence, joining forces for the sake of house-

hold consumption and individual prestige. Yet in everyday practice,

women are much more industrious, kept busy by household demands,

children’s needs, and care for the yams. Women carry the burden of responsibility for the yam seeds, for keeping the ‘lineage’ of their yam

cultivars alive through the years and trying to increase the seeds in order to share them with their children when they grow up.

The close connection of yam with matrilineality is manifested in this concept of ’uma.° The word for seeds, ewana, also applies to the pregnancy of women and animals that give susu (breast milk) to their

offspring, like mammals and marsupials.’ Like those of people (tomota), yam lineages (’uma) are spread all over the island, each named type of

’uma representing memberships of specific matrilineages and their lines of physical inheritance. As the same “wma are also used in other hamlets, a model of ‘clan’ comes to mind. At least, uma

belong to two

groups of yams, like the different totemic nesting patterns. A symbolic

relationship of the earth as woman’s belly and yams as woman’s chil-

dren has been drawn in the literature since Malinowski (see also Brindley

1984: 81; Battaglia 1990: 94; Mallett 1996: 202ff), and although I did

not hear my Dobu informants make this equation, the overall picture 94

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame is of women as ‘life-givers, nurturing children and yams’, as Lepowsky observed of Vanatinai (1994: 302).°

My 1993 data revealed respectively seventeen and twenty-two dif-

ferent names for ‘uma of each variety (siakutu and kwateya), with

some slight regional differences within Dobu Island. The yams of each

cultivar can be described in terms of taste, colour, shape, skin texture,

and structure of the flesh. Formerly, each household had no choice but to plant those ‘uma that were inherited by both partners, so that hus-

band’s and wife’s ’uma produced food and wealth for the household.

Since yams are sold in local markets these days, many people plant

preferably those ‘uma that suit their taste, but it is still regarded as shameful for a woman to lose her inherited seeds. I suggest that the power of women over yams is related to this principle of ’uma as the matrilineage of the yams. Not only is the planting and gardening work significant, but also the subsequent managing process that keeps people and yams alive for another year to come.

This involves maintaining a careful balance between keeping and shar-

ing. There is no stigma attached to the woman who keeps her seeds with caution and refuses to share them, one who prefers to go through

a period of relative hunger rather than to display generosity in the

wrong quarter. The yam house is a place of hiding and yam is probably the only valuable that can be successfully hidden from the public eye. A full yam house speaks of empty bellies (see Young 1971: Ch. 7), but not in derogatory terms; it is a tribute to the woman as to’abi’uma

(literally: ‘person-to build-yam-lineage’), to her self-control even in times

of famine, and to her authority over the household.

A woman’s strength is displayed and executed by her total control over her yam house. While new yams grow in the soil, the woman

shuts the door of the yam house and removes only small numbers of yams from the ‘low quality’ heap for evening meals. This time of the year is called ‘Famine’ (botana), referring to the feeling of insufficient

nutrition that one experiences when the diet consists of manioc, plantain banana, seasonal fruits and seeds, and occasional protein. Botana

as a time of famine is measurable in the diet, but rice and sweet pota-

toes have reduced the threat of starvation during this time of year.? A plague of snails on Normanby Island in 1993 provoked many discussions about botana, and the snail was referred to by this name.’ There are certainly cases of individuals who have insufficient food, but this is 95

Google

Dobu

seen as related to inter hamlet tensions and neither party involved is

keen to mention it. Knowing how to manage her yams is vital for a woman’s status. A poor harvest can be ignored once in a while, but if she wastes her seeds, fails to give bebai yams to affines, or feeds small yams to guests, she will never be alawata, a rich woman. In addition to agricultural

skills and the stamina needed to keep the garden in good shape, a woman needs to know about the different types of yam seeds, special

requirements for their growth and storage, and obwala (garden magic).

Some obwala is performed by men also, so if her husband has more

powerful spells she would leave it to him. Today, obwala seems to be regarded as less significant by many people of the younger generation,

who also have little knowledge of the different types of yam. Managing yams is regarded as ‘work’, hence the owner of a yam

house is working to ‘build the seeds’. When the large yams are counted in preparation for a feast, a senior woman climbs into each yam house

of a hamlet and packs the bebai tubers into baskets, counts the baskets, and leaves them for the owner to unpack the yams afterwards.

These yams are earmarked for the particular feast and must not be touched for any other purpose. This woman is working in her role of tolobwagila (person-making-bundles). The power of women over yams — and yams as objects of power — is founded on the relationship of the woman and the individual tubers.

By planting, pampering, harvesting, cleaning, packing, carrying, sort-

ing, rearranging, dusting, carefully observing and reordering her yam store, she knows her tubers intimately. Like individual persons, the yams have unique features, innate characteristics and genetic ties, and the large ones, bebai, are looked after with special pride and consid-

eration. Her authority lies in her relationship to bebai, her acknowledged capacity for making ‘new persons’. Bebai — the Big Yams Lissi was wailing this morning because of Tino (her son who died at

twenty months of age). Her mother had put a few things into her house:

a pair of Tino’s long pants, tied onto a long yam, and the diapers that

she had used to clean up his last vomiting. When Lissi saw the things,

she started to wail and cry. [Field Notes] 96

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame Big yams are objects that can embody memories

(weiweiyala); they

can stand for dead persons, as in the example above, or for the marriage

of a matrilineal relative. Other objects used as weiweiyala are photos, tombstones, tattoos, personal belongings, and kula valuables. A large roasted yam (egoi) is used as a symbolic key to the hamlet during

marriage festivities, when bride and groom are ‘made to bite’ (egoi) the yam thereby breaking the prohibition of eating in front of affines.

In addition to these special instances in which single bebai are used,

they are usually packed together as Big Gifts, counted several times during the transaction and finally received by another woman who has to return them at some stage, if the gift is not already a repayment (lotau, aga, or maisa, depending on the context). About eight to twelve

bebai fit into a standard basket (kodo), a few more into a slightly larger

basket called kodogaigai, literally ‘black basket’, because it is kept in the woman’s kitchen as a reminder of the debt and turns black in the

sooty air. As a golden rule, a woman should always keep at least five baskets of bebai for any sudden death, or special visitors like kula partners or affines. When lots of bebai are needed at a feast, they are

piled up in heaps (sitwa) of about 200 tubers, and large feasts can dis-

play up to four siwa as was the case in the celebration of 100 years of Christianity, held in June 1991. The cultural ideal of a wealthy woman is based on her special rela-

tionship with yams as seeds, food and, especially, as gifts. ‘Her cooking fire never goes out’ is the expression that I was always given in Eng-

lish. She invites her affines and is a perfect host to kula partners (liter-

ally ‘eyes’ at the visitor, tomata’owaga’owaga). In short, she has enough bebai to fulfil all the exchange demands of herself, her husband, and

the elders of her matrilineage. She makes the right choices when planting yams (dauna) and is praised as todauna (a person who is a very

good planter), she builds up the stock of yam seeds, looks after her

children well, and can afford to invite people for a share of cooked food. Her positive attitude gives her renown as tolobwau (person-call out) and to’ebway’ebwaya (person-giving out). The virtue of alamai’ita is reflected in the cultural ideal of women giving birth under the house

without making a noise. Yet this self-discipline is rewarded by an ac-

knowledgment of the woman as politically influential (though she may go hungry herself while cooking bebai for her guests), an influence that is based on her success in the overall management of her yams. 97

Google

Dobu

’Une — at the heart of exchange While yams are in the managerial hands of women, the other items for Big Gifts, are held by both men and women. In fact, as men do not

have access to fame through gardening (in contrast to, for example, Kiriwina), the production, accumulation, and management of ’une

provides the sole avenue for men who want to gain a ‘big name’, or at least, to prove their potency as adults. As I have stated, “une is a noun and a verb, referring to the objects

as well as to the process of transaction. Within Dobu local exchanges, pigs and kula valuables are regarded as interchangeable items, so that a valuable bagi or mwali is worth a big pig which could be purchased

for about 300 to 500 Kina. ’Une are given as an assemblage of gifts. In

a line, men and women approach the hamlet, the women carrying the

heavy baskets of yam on their heads and often toddlers on their hips.

Pigs are slung onto poles each carried by two men, while children carry bundles of betel nuts. Often, one or two clay pots of mona pudding are also carried by women on their heads, and if muwali or bagi shells form

part of the gift, some senior man or woman takes care of them. In

some cases, store goods like sugar or balloons and even small notes of cash are added to the gift as decoration just before its presentation. Upon arrival, the gifts are placed on the ground, betel nuts are put on top of the yams, the pig squeals and tries to escape, and a senior member of the group begins a short speech that explains the context of the gift.

Pigs — the beloved protein Unlike in many parts of Melanesia, pigs are not allowed to roam freely

in Dobu hamlets. Occasional exceptions, like a sow with her litter, or a young piglet, are likely to cause trouble with their tendency to destroy

decorative flowers and dilapidated kitchens - not cases when pigs raid gardens and are speared by thereby causing quarrels. These are the reasons why on Dobu Island that it is easier to fence the pigs than are usually kept in small pens and have to be fed

to mention those the angry owner, there is consensus the gardens. They by their personal

owners or an appointed carer, often an older child. Pigs have names;

they often come when called and follow basic commands, such as to 98

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame

lie down or to move. In this respect, they are far better trained than

most of the dogs that populate the hamlets. According to my 1993 census, 153 pigs were being raised on Dobu. The following table relates the number of pigs to the number of households in the hamlet clusters of the island. Table 5: Ratio of pigs to households Name of hamlet cluster

Number of houses

Balabala

31

Egadoi

45

Sailele

0S

Edugaula Enaia Mwanomwanona Wabuna Total

Number of pigs

33

96

38

44 51

30 24

12 284

13 153

14

01

Ratio: 0.53 pigs per household

The number of pigs per household is relatively low by Melanesian

standards, but they reflect what Young observed in Goodenough Island (Nidula):

By comparison with those pig-infatuated peoples of Vanuatu and the

New Guinea Highlands, the Nidula case is one of warm but not excessive affection,

secular

rather

than

sacrificial

killing

(though

the

commandment ‘Thou shalt not eat thine own pig’ is heeded) and a fairly low pig: people ratio... Their value as wealth and their uses in exchange as notional ‘substitutes for human beings’ also resembles the

situation on Tubetube and other islands of the Massim. [1984: 124]

Macintyre reports a higher ratio of about two pigs per person for Tubetube Island (1984: 109-10), but also mentions fluctuations due to climate conditions and feasts. The ratio for Dobu, however, does not

include those pigs that are grown by muli exchange partners on

Normanby, Fergusson, and Sanaroa islands to pay back pigs that were given to them as credit by Dobu partners. Pigs are the largest mammals in the local environment (only dugongs are larger), they are loved as

beings and their physical similarity to humans was stressed by many

99

Google

Dobu

informants. In fact, formerly a human victim might replace the gift of a pig, as reflected in the beliefs concerning the supernatural Taumudumudulele: If this ‘white man’ (tai dimdim) is called (by magic) to improve the yam

garden, he has to be paid after the harvest: one heap of bebai and a pig. If no pig is available, a human relative from the same matrilineage can be offered instead and Taumudumudulele is known for calling the victim (by magic) and killing him or her in the bush. He does not eat the body but leaves it to his female friends, the witches, to devour the corpse. [Field Notes]

If a pig falls sick, it can be healed with the same medicinal plants and magic procedures as humans, and at sagali mortuary feasts a large pig is often decorated with relics of the dead person and set on fire (while singeing it) to put an end to the memory of the deceased. Pigs used to

be a part of marriage exchanges, their size being commemorated by a string kept for the purpose of returning a pig of matching girth. My friend Judith told me about her marriage exchanges:

When I got married eleven years ago, my husband’s people brought a pig so fat that it couldn’t walk any more. This gift has not been returned

by my people, because we have not been able to find a pig of a matching

size. Maybe one day we can finish this debt, but it is truly hard to find such a

fat pig! [Field Notes]

A pig that has been fenced close to a cemetery must not be eaten by anyone whose mother, father, father’s mother, or father’s father is buried there. As a gesture of respect, the spouse and children must refrain from eating it as well. Proximity to the corpses symbolically penetrates the pork, just as the connection with mortuary exchange (bwabwale) renders pork inedible for everyone except those who can ‘eat the dead body’ (to’ebwabwale), that is, the heirs of the deceased.

The impact of this principle became obvious when I bought a pig for my friend’s farewell party. Its owner was keen to sell it and no one

objected, but when the pig was cooked, it turned out that more than

half of Losina’s residents could not eat its meat. It had been raised next to the cemetery of Gaula hamlet, where a senior woman

had been

buried not long ago. Her son was married to Losina, so were two of her brothers. The matrilineages of these families did not eat any pork, 100

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame

and it was not until later that I realised that I should not have touched

it either, as the deceased woman had been my namesake. As in many other parts of Melanesia, pigs are not raised for one’s own consumption. They have to be exchanged in order to become socially edible, either on a credit basis with balanced reciprocity, or against muwali or bagi (lagwa), or bought with money. When a hamlet

kills many pigs for a feast, the families exchange pigs of the same size in order to be able to eat those pieces that will not be distributed. Pigs

are either exchanged alive, in butchered pieces, or as a part of cooked feasting food. Pork was the favourite food of almost everybody I asked,

but it is rarely eaten outside the context of major exchange events. A

pig belongs to the person who cares for it, feeds it, enhances its growth

with magic and herbal treatments, and loves it. But when

the time

comes for it to be exchanged, the idyllic life of a pampered pet ends dramatically. Others have reported the often slow processes of killing,

the pigs dying in agony." The care-giver of the pig, if it is a woman, often stands close to the scene of slaughtering and wails a lament until

the last scream has faded away.

In spite of their ‘belonging’ to care-givers, the management decisions concerning pigs are made through consensus within the matrilin-

eage. An elder might have plans for a feast, or is obliged to meet a

debt, or the death of a kinsperson suddenly requires the pig as a gift (’une), or an exchange partner asks for the pig as a loan, or somebody

in urgent need of a pig offers money. As the pig-person ratio is low on

Dobu, there are never enough pigs available to meet demand. I often

saw people searching for pigs, patrolling the coastlines of Fergusson and Normanby, visiting friends in Sanaroa Island, and usually return-

ing empty-handed. Pigs are a rare commodity, to be managed with tact

and experience. In this respect, they resemble the other articles that are called “une, the shell artefacts of the kula exchange, the bagi necklace

and the muwali armshell.

Bagi and mwali - shells of the kula ring Bagi are necklaces made out of tiny red disks from Chama shell (J. Leach 1983a: 23), either with or without decorations. Some are worn

everyday as personal ornaments (alumoi, talamaga or magamaga); others are hidden in the house and only worn by women at “une 101

Google

Dobu

distributions. On Dobu, the parts are named as shown in the illustration below.

Diagram 5: The named parts of bagi

Acrescent-shaped kaila shell (pearl shell) is the decoration at the bottom

end of many bagi. It often serves as a means of identification for the bagi, especially when the name of the bagi and of previous transactors ~ is written or scratched on it. The outer side of the crescent is decorated

with cowrie shells and glass beads,'? banana seeds (botoboto) and larger shell disks (sapisapi). The pointed ends of the crescent should be decorated with a bigger cowrie shell (bunidoga) on both sides, together

with some strings of glass beads with pieces of mwalikwakwakwa shell at their ends (dauyoyo). These dangling decorations are affixed to the

kaila as well as on the other end of the bagi and the sulasula (Ovula

ovum) shell. They create a distinctive tinkling sound when the bagi is handled. White shell disks (bole) are set in the middle of the string as a deco-

ration and, as in precious bagi, as a marker for its length. Some bagi have a finer cut (’upwa and isi) on the end next to the kaila shell. This

102

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame part is called mudu (pubic area, see also Schlesier 1983: 113 n.12), and

the end of the bagi close to the kaila shell is called bagi muduna (the

pubic area of the necklace). The opposite end of the bagi string, closer

to the sulasula shell (also called bwaliwana or dunali), is called bagi tetena, the ‘bridge of the necklace’.'? The decoration of the bagi can

give evidence of its value. If three to four stlasula shells are fixed at the ‘head’ end (bagi debana), this is a sign of a ‘second class’ dagula bagi.

A funnel-shaped bottom end of a conch shell marks a bagi as ‘third class’, bulubulu.'* If compared with Campbell’s account of the named parts of bagi from a Vakuta perspective, the Dobu bagi seems to be

analogous to the body from a different angle. While for Vakutans, the sulasula shell can be called ‘testicles’, it is for Dobu speakers the ‘head’.

In addition, the end of the bagi that is close to the kaila shell is called ‘pubic area’ in Dobu, but ‘ear’ or ‘top’ in Vakuta (see Campbell 1983b: 235). Muwali are rings made from Conus shell (J. Leach 1983a: 23;

Campbell 1983b: 233). They are decorated with sulasula shells that

are covered with a fine plaited net of glass beads, and with strings of beads hanging down each sulasula shell. At the end of each string there

are hollow guawa nutshells. These dangling decorations are also called

dauyoyo, and, similarly to the shell pieces on the dauyoyo of the bagi, they make a distinctive sound when the mwali is handled. Munn reports from Gawa that the sound of the dawyoyo, or their appearance,

is regarded as symbolising the kula shell (1990: 6, 15 n.10). Bigger cowrie shells (bunidoga) are often set on both lower corners of the

decorated sulasula shells, so that they frame a semicircle of small cowrie shells similar to the decoration of the bagi (kaila shell). The decorative part of a muwali is sometimes called mwali ana dobe (‘the women’s skirt of the armshell’).

Criteria of value A person who has the social standing of a manager of ‘une needs to

have specific knowledge. The key to successful exchange is an understanding of the value of particular ‘une. While pigs are relatively

easy to estimate by measures of the height, girth, and size of the teeth,

shell valuables require much more subtle criteria of evaluation. The

value of bagi varies considerably depending on the smoothness, length, 103

Google

Dobu

Diagram 6: The named parts of mwali

sopa sulasula finery | dobe

5

y

botoboto

bunidoga

dauyoyo

colour, and thickness of the disks, as the following table on classification

terms for bagi shows.

As the table shows, the colour, size and shape of component disks

and the smoothness of the whole string of beads determine the value of a bagi. The relative length of the string (etopwapwa) is less important, as old bagi might be short but very fine in terms of size (’upwa) and

smoothness (isi). Bagi without renown are measured nevertheless, by

holding the sulasula shell in the hand and stretching the bagi up the

arm.

The value of mwali is more difficult to assess, and according to

Alfred even kula traders sometimes miscalculate.'’ The terms in the

table below show that basic criteria for evaluation are not mentioned. Generally speaking, a muwali shell should be wide enough to fit on the upper arm of a man, the wider the circumference of the shell (sanasana)

the better. The number of sulasula shells is an indication of the value of a muwali: if more than eight of them fit onto the lower side of the mwuali, it has a large width (deba) and is usually valued as very precious. 104

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame

Table 6: The value of bagi Place of origin (ebe)

Size of bagi disks (’upwa) | Smoothness of the bagi

Bolowai made in Suau, not shining Panapanaeiti made in the | Rosell area, bright red, | highest value Totomulsava or Wagela | made in Muyuwa, light red | Solomon whitish, shining | (new in the kula exchange, little value)

bagi yelu or yalayalau very fine and old, highest value | bagi samu or bagi doa fine cut of disks, very high value ‘alumoi small bagi, often used as a necklace (talamaga or magamaga)

string (isi)

nonokwaikwai smooth surface dakadaka rough surface

However, there are wide variations in the value of mwali that are due

to invisible factors, namely their history and renown. Beige colouring with brownish lines (laulau) indicates a long history as an exchange

valuable, ‘wading from shore to shore’ as it is said.'* The edge of the

shell (sopa) is another indication of its value. If it is thin the value is higher as it means that the muwali is old, because the rope (‘a’aka) has

worn and polished the mwali when it was being carried around. The following table lists the terms used to describe and assess muwali:

Table 7: Criteria to judge a mwali [ Appearance of mwali

T

|

Place of origin (ebe)

deba: width of the shell bwagise: mwali from Muyuwa |gaiosakowasi or gaiogaiolaw: very old and precious muwali sopa: edge of the shell (wide sopa, short deba) (dagula) gaio’enuana or sulasula: six to eight shells kucyawa: mwali from Kuyava form the finery (dobe) of a | (Trobriand Islands) with a muwali’au: high value muali of high value long deba (bulubulu) aisepolu: medium value mwali nawanawa: normal sized mwali tupona: small | mwali

The value of bagi and mwali is based on quality markers that are interrelated, for their appearance reflects on their history. A new bagi

or mwali is ‘scaled’ (eyaiye) in the first transaction, either locally, as

against a pig, or during a kula expedition, as against other bagi or 105

Google

Dobu

mwali. The absolute criteria are provided by those bagi or mwali that are famous in the whole kula area. The highest valuable, the ‘crown of all the mwal?’ (waniai) is called

Manuatasopi.'?

Two

bagi are classified as waniai,

namely

Tokanubwararana and the bagi Asanaibe’ube’u.'® Below these, there are only a few mwali and bagi of the second class (bulubulu) in the

kula ring. Dagula means ‘feather’ when used as a head decoration; it is

a metaphor for height, as the feather makes the person who wears it physically higher and more attractive, and hence projects authority.

The names of waniai and dagula shells are powerfully evocative and are known by all those who are interested in kula. Their movements

and sojourns are avidly discussed when kula traders meet. These mwali

and bagi create intense emotions (greed, pride, excitement, anger, joy,

envy, and fear) as they slowly circulate through the Massim. They are the objects of many conversations, plots, and dreams. These are the mwali

Kebulubulu,

Atuidamana-old,!?

Tomanibwadi

Tamanboi,

Waleya ana du’u, Tukawa,”° Lalabwatoulaiya,”' Maikala. The names of the most famous dagula bagi are Dilimeyana, Lepoyata, Telefoni,”

Kabwaku Senibeta, Dokanikani, Tamagwali, Likudomdom.?

Tausibwegai,

Praiasiamugadiwe,

In the past, these dagula are said to have formed ‘married couples’

(ai), but the practice of pairing them was given up after the resumption

of kula following its suspension during 1942 to 1945 (J. Leach 1983a: 15). Some other valuables are likely to gain the status of dagula in the

future.” If size and quality are right, they might become accepted in

exchange for an established dagula. Through this ‘marriage’, they increase in value as long as general opinion agrees with the match and

there is a willingness to exchange it against dagula at least one more

time. In this way, the relatively new mwali Maikala became ranked as dagula, because it had been exchanged with the bagi Likudomdom

three times. Within Dobu Island, it does not matter whether a bagi is

exchanged against a muwali or against another bagi. This leads to a

consideration of two concepts, gender and ownership. The ‘gender’ of valuables

Much has been written about the gender of mwali and bagi. Since Malinowski, the idea of ‘marriage’ between bagi and mwali has inspired exchange theorists (Mauss 1990: 26; Strathern 1988: 199ff; Damon

106

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame 1990:

96; Munn

1986:

157ff). According

to Munn,

Damon

and

Campbell (see Scoditti and Leach 1983: 271), bagi are seen as female”

and mwali as male. Malinowski was given the opposite impression:

‘The arm shells are conceived as a female principle, and the necklaces

as the male’ (1922: 356). Macintyre confirms Malinowski’s information for Tubetube (1983c: 373) in the southern Massim. In spite of repeated efforts to find one, however, I am unable to state a definite correlation

from a Dobu perspective. Although bagi and mwali are interchangeable

in local exchanges and belong to the same category of gifts as pigs

(une), there are inherent differences that are beyond the analytical

frame of gender dichotomies and that complicate any attempt at symbolic interpretation based on binary opposition. Typical answers

to my questions about the ‘marriage’ of kula shells were remarks such as the following:

Yes, they might be gendered, as they are said to ‘marry’ each other. Oh

yes, one of them must then be male and the other female, so let us see...

Oh yes, the muwali is female, because it has a skirt (dobe), the bagi is male, sure, because it is long (and red). Yes, this sounds good and hence

might be the truth. [Field Notes]

Reasons for the opposite conclusion were found just as easily: ‘The bagi might be female, because it comes from the left side, the weak

side. Accordingly, the muwali is male, right?” Once a statement like this had been made, the suggestion of the opposite gendering was rejected

as false. ‘Who said so? No, that is wrong.’

Although I was searching for, and hoping to find, some hidden

gender issues in the symbolism of exchange on Dobu, I am not able to present any of them in the context of kula exchange. The metaphor of ‘marriage’ simply appears to relate to the kind of relationship, as ideally connecting two persons of matching ‘value’ (age, renown, degree of beauty) in a relation of mutual obligation rather than to a specifi-

cally gendered pairing of one male and one female subject. In addition, the gendering of valuables seems to be a typical strategy for explaining things to anthropologists. Weiner quotes a Trobriand informant who

compares a kula shell to a woman: ‘Remember, a kula shell is like a young girl; she looks over every man until she decides which one she likes best. One man is chosen and the others are sent away’ (1976: 218).

However, the metaphorical use of gender does not necessarily imply 107

Google

Dobu

that the valuables have to be seen in the light of gender only. In fact, I

was mostly taught about the kula through the use of other metaphors: I went to Lakatani and we sat down on his veranda. He had promised to explain the kusla to me and I wondered why he stretched out, lifted a part of the sago leaves of the roof, and took a pack of playing cards from their hiding place. He went through them, sorting out the high

cards and putting them into hierarchical order. He explained that the relative value of the cards was the important trick. ‘Ace with ace, king with king, queen with queen, jack with jack, that is how we do kula.’ [Field Notes]

In her analysis of Sabar! objects of wealth, Battaglia deduces a different classification of gender, one in terms of quality and durability: However, what emerges when we look at food and object wealth together is a cultural predisposition to label as ‘masculine’ the production

and procurement of things that are more durable and individually valued

(unit-value objects, pigs, and sago) and as ‘feminine’ production and

procurement of things that are more ephemeral and collectively valued (yams and bulk wealth). [1990: 87]

Again, these qualifications were not brought to my attention in

Dobu. I have already mentioned that yams are regarded as persons, but again, no clear gendering seems to be present within the types of yam. In general, the long variety of kwateya is equated with maleness,

but this is understood as referring to the fact that men plant these seeds and harvest these yams as an exception to the normal division of labour. It can be assumed that pigs are gendered according to their

actual sex, while mona pudding, large fish, and bunches of bananas

are gifts that are provided exclusively by men and thus appeared to be ‘male’ rather than ‘female’ to one Dobu informant. According to Lepowsky, maleness in Vanatinai is seen in terms of potency and fe-

maleness in terms of fertility, but big men and women have both attributes and are therefore constructed as dually gendered (1994: 279).

The notion of ‘gendered exchange’ has been explored by Strathern

with regard to mediated versus unmediated exchange (1988: 191ff), but although she uses Massim data from Woodlark Island, she seems

to employ a different set of metaphors than those used on Dobu, ren-

dering direct comparison difficult. It seems as if on Dobu, kula shells

are not typically perceived as being gendered as ‘male’ and ‘female’ but 108

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame

rather as two variables out of three (’une), a perspective that is based

on local exchanges, where pigs, bagi and muwali are literally interchange-

able as gifts that mediate social conflict (ta’ona, gaipoteya) and patrilateral relatedness (talo, pegita). Sexual references are commonly

used in conversations about kula as a form of rhetoric rather than in a

strictly metaphorical sense. For these reasons, it seems more relevant

to seek out for those metaphors that are used to distinguish bagi and

muali in a qualitative sense. From a linguistic point of view, it appears that different possessive forms (deictic stems) are used for bagi and mwali. While bagi shell

necklaces carry the deictic stem i-, as in igu bagi (my bagi that I control), the deictic stem used for muwali arm shells is a-, as in agu mwali (my muwali that is very close to me). Nobody could explain convinc-

ingly why bagi are connected with i- and mwali with a-. One would say: ‘Gete igu bagi be gote agu mwali.’ (This is my bagi, and that is my

mwali.) When we sat and speculated over this question people realised

for the first time that there was no simple explanation for this shift. It only ‘sounded very wrong’ to them if someone said igu muwali or agu bagi. The only guess came from Henry Poate, who pointed out that the

mwali was a shell that could be eaten (hence a-, or even aa-) while bagi

were produced far away outside the kula ring:

Maybe nobody knew that the disks for bagi are made out of shell. Before, we Dobu people did not go to Rossell Island, so maybe we did not know where the bagi came from and what it was made of. We

thought that it was not edible and so we say ‘igu bagi’. [Field Notes]

This explanation does not reveal any gender symbolism, but refers to the distinction between

food and non-food, closeness and relative

distance, direct ownership and possession. Apart from this difference, two more categories of distinction can be found. Firstly, the particular features of bagi string versus mwali shell with all the different connotations of value, and the distinct sounds made by the decorative

shells (dawyoyo) or nut shells (gwawa); secondly, that access to them is

in opposite directions, as bagi ‘come down’ from Duau (dolo) and

muali ‘come up’ from Bwaiowa (laga), an issue that will be taken up

in Chapter 7. My suggestion that Bwaiowa is closer to Dobu than to Duau and accordingly that muwali are ‘closer’ than bagi, was neither

confirmed nor rejected: ‘Yes, maybe...’

109

Google

Dobu

The concept of kitomwa - ownership or management? The exchange of Big Gifts at a local level bears fruits of prestige for those involved. Bagi and muwali can be owned by individual persons, to be kept or exchanged according to the circumstances. Malinowski

had been criticised for having overlooked this aspect of kula (see Weiner

1984: 161ff; J. Leach 1983a: 24). From a Dobu point of view, personally owned bagi or mwali, called kitomwa, are essential for local exchange. This is similar to other kula areas (see Weiner 1984: 148, 160; Macintyre 1983c: 373 ff; Thune 1980: 248 ff), but different to Woodlark (Damon

1990: 92-3). In Dobu there is no general notion that every bagi or

mwali must be somebody’s kitomwa. This leads to more general issues of ownership, as from a Dobu

perspective ‘une are treated equally as one category of valuables, so

my account of the concept of kitomwa includes pigs, bagi, and mwali.

It has been shown above that yams are under the control of women

until they are brought out of the yam house and packed into baskets.

Women carry these baskets on their heads, but often refrain from the

display of superiority. Although there are a few explicitly ‘talkative’ women keen to speak in public, women usually assume an inferior

posture and stay quiet. However, it is a matter of common knowledge

that women are the true cugtodians of the yam and therefore have no

need to ‘show off’ and risk public censure for it.

In the afternoon, ‘our fathers’ brought their gifts for the sagali feast.

They put a live pig, some baskets of yams, a bunch of bananas and some bunches of betelnuts that were placed on top of the yams. John

gave a short speech and told us the reason for this gift (support - lema — for the sagali), then Jamie also raised her voice and added that they

loved us like ‘fathers’ and that we could count on their support forever.

Later, she told me that she was admonished by one of the members of the party for speaking up. She was upset about it, because it was not

right: ‘Who gives something big has a right to speak, man or woman.

That’s our real custom’. [Field Notes]

For the Dobu context it is useful to extend to pigs Macintyre’s definition

of kitomwa as ‘personal kula-shell free of extant obligation to other traders’ (1983c: 373). Pigs are regarded as the property of an individual,

to be used for matters concerning the matrilineage if needed. Yet it

cannot be claimed to be a kitomuwza if it is received as a loan (buki) or 110

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame

destined to reach a partner further around the circle as a begging gift (po’ala), or a repayment (maisa or sugu). As long as there is no local

need for it, the owner can use the kitomwa for overseas exchange or

for his or her own interests, like ‘renting’ of gardening land (bwa’a

manuna) or exchange against another ‘une (lagwa). In this sense, ‘une

can be seen as alienable, a fact that is demonstrated by the practice of

selling them for cash, or by exchanging two or three high valued ‘une

against one dagula mwali or bagi. As with all Big Gifts, decisions

concerning their use depend on the actual situation within the matrilineage. Persons with high status are expected to know how to

use their wealth wisely, but others will be advised by their elders about

the appropriate move. In this area of management, women and men

have their say according to notions of respect, and a junior man is not

entirely free to use his inherited kitornwa the way he likes. If his ‘mothers’ disagree he cannot ignore their arguments without risking their censure. The use of ’une and bebai As the old man whom I have quoted at the beginning of this chapter has put it, bebai and “une are ‘the most important things’. In fact, each matrilineage needs to have access to bebai and ’une in order to fulfil social obligations and defend social space. The symbolism of the Big Gift depends on the actual context of the exchange process. It can be

understood as expressing domination, as an accusation, an insult, a

display of pride, or as expressing subordination as an apology, a return gift, a symbol of solidarity and love. I was told that even a death could be ‘paid for’ with ’une, the gift being called pwaoli.?” There are normative prescriptions for each type of gift, making its reason clear and giving instructions for the appropriate reaction of the receiver(s).

Here, I will only give an overview of the different types of Big Gifts,

classified according to the emotional background and reason for their presentation. It appears that they are used to consolidate relations

between people who otherwise cannot mention personal feelings due to the notions of respect and self-control. As the restrictions between

affines are most severe in these terms, kitomwa are often used, a point

that Thune also makes for Duau society: ‘In a real way, the central

area for kitoma valuables is the local, affinally-defined sphere, for it is 111

Google

Dobu

in service to local needs and ambitions that they are traded in the kula’

(1983: 357).

Local exchange is facilitated by ‘une in matters of land for garden-

ing. After the land of a father’s matrilineage or a befriended matriline-

age has been used, a gift of gratitude is expected. The period of use might be long before some compensating ‘gift’ should be given to the

landowners; it depends on the individual agreement and current state of affairs. The longer it is overdue the more valuable it should be,

consisting of a pig if possible, as well as mwali or bagi. This gift (bwa’a

manuna — for the land) is handed over partly as compensation, partly as a token of friendship and gratitude. Compensation and gratitude

might also have been the motives behind the gift of bagi or mwali in the context of a new overseas canoe — a complex process with many prescribed elements of exchange that is about to be forgotten these

days due to the availability of dinghies and diesel-engine boats. After the large canoe had been built and used for the first time, its owner

(toniwaga) should give a valuable called wau ana oli (canoe-its-oiling),

to his crew to express gratitude for their help in building and performing at the ceremony of the first trip, as well as to ensure their future help and solidarity. As Jamie in the example cited above stated, ‘Only someone who

gives something big has a right to speak openly’. This is the rule that allows quarrels to be brought into the open in spite of the ethical value of self-control that is so characteristic of Dobu interaction. Big men

(sometimes women) represent their matrilineage when they rise in front

of baskets of yams and a pig, take a shell valuable from their bag, and

throw it (ule) at the feet of their opponents with an expression of dis-

gust. Those who are accused, or feel ashamed and angry, have to re-

main quiet and accept the insults. They will try to return the gift as soon as possible, so that they are entitled to make a counter speech and acquit themselves of the shame. Affines, who are expected to display politeness and friendship, can express their true feelings only when they hand over such a Big Gift. The context for these ta’ona gifts can be on a personal level or as a reaction to some delict against one’s

matrilineage. The giving of Big Gifts can also be a strategy of ‘hiding’

wealth. Often, it is more desirable to have material wealth ‘stored away’ in the form of credit that can be activated when needed, than to have it attracting the attention of those who could become ‘envious’ (e’ipi’ipi). 112

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame

As Kaibado put it: A pig that is penned in my hamlet needs food and maintenance, but if my friend owes me a pig, I have it without having to feed it, my mothers

and sisters will not ask me for it, my neighbour will not be angry about

its depredating, and no ‘old lady’ becomes envious. [Field Notes]

The Big Gift is located ‘at the heart of exchange’. Its symbolic power

lies in its convertability into personal qualities (fame/name, ‘work’ and ‘love’). As valuables are publicly passed on, they carry a message about

their donor’s personal qualities, such as knowledge and the capacity

for acquiring and managing wealth. They indicate a person’s record as

a member of a social group and the ‘work’ that was required to solicit them. Thirdly, a Big Gift carries a message about personal feelings like ‘anger’ in a gift of ta’ona, or ‘love’ as in gifts between ‘fathers’ and ‘children’ (loduwaduwa, talo, pegita). These aspects give Big Gifts their symbolic capacity to balance social debts that were created by a person’s

‘work’ for the donor. Such symbolism makes it possible to use Big Gifts as compensation, for the use of gardening land or even for homicide (pwaoli). As a social tool, Big Gifts can be used to mend

relationships in times of conflict, or as a social weapon they can be used to destroy an enemy’s name. Unless a Big Gift is compensatory, the recipient is obliged to give

an equal return in the form of ‘une or an equivalent amount of ‘work’ (this includes the old practice of using humans as gifts, see Macintyre

1983a: 233) or land rights. Failure to balance debts of Big Gifts is perceived as a sign of personal incompetence and a lack of social support. The public gaze is particularly focussed on such cases, shaming

those persons who cannot meet their exchange obligations by infor-

mal gossip about his or her ‘bad’ character. While it is a matter of

pride to give Big Gifts, it is not only shameful to be unable to reciprocate such gifts but also dangerous. People in Dobu acknowledge this when stating that ‘people have died for ‘une’. If consolidation is not

achieved through gifts, if debts are not returned within the scheduled

period, and if the management of bebai and ‘une is disturbed because

of failure to reach consensus, everybody expects further sanctions in the form of sickness or death within the matrilineage. These sanctions are said to be carried out through magical techniques of either witchcraft or sorcery. 113

Google

Dobu Notes

Secrecy is only an issue in connection with the storage of yams and yam

seeds (*uma). Analytically, the metaphor of ‘social alchemy’ suggests inappropriate means, because there has been no successful alchemy so far. This metaphor does

not seem justified in the light of Massim studies. See also Munn (1986: 109) for the importance of ‘listening’ and the concept of ‘replacement’ on Gawa; and Foster (1990).

From a Dobu perspective, Duau (Normanby) people only plant kwateya and Bwaiowa (Fergusson) people only siakutu. Dobu is better off because

both types support each other as their vines creep up the ebudi in different directions. Also, pests and bad weather are less likely to affect the entire

harvest. See Hide et al. for further details of Dobu as an agricultural system (1994: 87-8); also Hide, Bourke and Allan (1994).

Fortune’s account of the inheritance and division of yam seeds (1932: 69-72,

118) differs considerably from my data. Seeds are passed to another matrilineage during marriage exchanges, people can change seeds according to a preference in taste, and in case of shortage, mili, like paternal relatives, can help out. There are many different kinds of yam (see also Dixon n.d.:

101, 164). There are no links to clan boundaries these days, although

Fortune suggests that garden magic and seeds are related in a ‘dogmatic’ way (1932: 70, 71). None of my informants confirmed his statements.

co

All other seeds are called suwana (see also Dixon n.d.: 60, 173).

See also Gudeman (1986: 189ff). In times of serious drought, people expect to receive aids from the ‘urban branches’ of their matrilineages as well as from national and international

organisations.

10 Young analysed historical cases of drought and famine (loka) (1971: 173ff)

and the concept of hunger (1986) in Kalauna. According to my informants,

Dobu Island is blessed with better soil and climate than Goodenough, but serious droughts and food scarcity might have been reasons for increased

raiding activities at the end of the last century. 11 See, for example, Schlesier (1983: 223). 12 In the past, seeds and fruits (for example, bright red kalakalapopola fruits

or grey keninitu seeds) were used instead of glass beads. Today, many modern materials are used to decorate muwali and bagi: plastic disks (called baketi, as they are cut from red buckets) instead of sapisapi disks, rubber pieces instead of botoboto seeds, and metal or rubber instead of pear! shell

114

Google

Big Gifts and the Claim to Fame

for the kaila shell. 13 Dixon n.d.: 181: ‘tetena - ridge, i.e., of the mountain.’ I would rather

translate it as ‘bridge’, as it bridges the bagi and the sula shell.

14 Bulubulu means ‘head’ or ‘skull’. According to Macintyre and Young (1982: 212), homicide payments of highly ranked bagi or mwali (pwaouli)

were used in pre-colonial Tubetube society to redeem the skulls of their warriors from the enemy. 15 Alfred Lazarus (‘Alipi’) is a famous kula trader in Kwanaula (Duau). 16 Gaiogaio or gaiosakowasi, the verb gaio means ‘to wade at the beach’, gaiosakowasi means ‘to wade at different places’.

17 Currently held by Alexander Meleodi.

18 The latter was held by Ruth Lakatani until November 1993 and given to

Josepa of Mataudowai in Bwaiowa.

19 This was held by Mwalubeyai (of Koyagaugau), who received it from Ruth Lakatani in late 1993. The name distinguishes this mwali from a new one of lower value that was called Atuidamana-new. The re-use of famous names is called esabalana (‘to pass the fame on’).

20 See also Munn (1990). 21 Recently held by Manukalai (Dobu).

22 Recently held by Ruth Lakatani in Mwemweyala (Dobu)

23 This list is not complete, but none of my friends and informants could

remember any more names. Not even Mwalubeyai, the late ‘king of the kula’, could tell me more.

24 An example is the bagi Waria Bwagaoya, still seen as a bulubulu bagi, but

with a good chance of finding ‘a matching partner’ from the elite class of

dagula mwali.

25 One wonders why a part of the bagi is then called ‘testicles’ (Campbell 1983b: 234). 26 Similarly contradictory statements have been reported from Kiriwina

(Digim’Rina, pers. comm.)

27 See also Macintyre (1983c: 375-76). 28 See also Munn (1990: 15 n.5, 7).

115

Google

Chapter 5

THe Girt THAT Kitts — WITCHCRAFT AND SORCERY Name of the gift: bolausa (poison)

In the previous chapters, gifts have been discussed as strategies of social interaction

to formalise,

redefine, or end

relationships.

In this

interactional context, gifts are used to express and create feelings and

thoughts in an informal manner on an everyday basis, and sometimes

in formalised, ‘staged’, presentations in connection with Big Gifts. A person’s interactive options often also involve sorcery or witchcraft. Strategically, attempts are made to ‘pay back’, to win someone’s blind trust and admiration, or to induce sickness or death. The range of ‘gifts that kill’ (to use Mauss’s term [1990: 255]) is wide and not

confined to specialists. In this chapter, I will link beliefs in sorcery and

witchcraft to a person’s social conduct, gender, and the notion of self-

consciousness.

Interesting in this context is the double meaning of ‘work’ as a synonym for exchange and as a personal characteristic and virtue of individuals. As gift exchange is ‘work’, a ‘hardworking’ person should

participate in exchanges, and gain authority in the internal sphere of

management of wealth. This ‘work’ reflects on positive character traits,

increases the chances of inheritance of ’une, and eventually creates a

halo of fame that in turn strongly influences future exchanges. The frequency of exchanges depends on the nature of the exchanged objects. While it is common to give and take small gifts on an everyday

basis, the exchange of Big Gifts is far less frequent. Accordingly, a person can show responsibility, virtue, and good moral standing by clever participation in everyday exchanges while ‘working’ on his or her fame/name for future involvement in the management of Big Gifts. Gender ideology properly regards women as the reproducing sex and supports their ‘work’ as managers of yams, giving adult women full responsibility for their perpetuation and the fame for her success. Men are more likely to be ‘speakers’ and publicly ‘stage’ exchange

events, including the kula gift exchange, typically announcing the ‘name of the gift’ and its reason in short orations. For both men and women 116

Google

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery

ideal behaviour is based on the same principles of ‘respect’, ‘self-con-

trol’ and ‘generosity’. In this sense, a person’s ‘good conduct’ is subject

to the constant evaluation of others. As ‘conduct’ can be translated

into ‘work’, a ‘hardworking’ person of either gender can expect to be

given wealth, fame, and a set of spells and techniques as aides to retain this fame. On the other hand, a ‘lazy’ person can expect quite the con-

trary, and in extreme cases even sickness and death, interpreted as

induced by either sorcery or witchcraft.' Of course, this system cannot ‘keep everyone happy’. Conflicts invariably arise, which Dobu people

generally attribute to the personal failure and ‘bad conduct’ of individuals. In many such cases, shaming gifts (like ta’ona) serve as a coer-

cive social tool, especially if they consist of yams and ‘une.

Fellow hamlet residents, a spouse and his or her matrilineage, stran-

gers, people with little material wealth, and kwla competitors, how-

ever, are for different reasons not always vulnerable to shaming gifts.

The common reaction in such cases is to secretly perform ‘magical mischief’ on an opponent, so that sickness, accidents, and death are

usually interpreted in terms of sorcery and witchcraft.”

Fortune (1932, 1954a [1932], 1954b [1932], 1960) branded ‘Dobuans’ as cruel and antisocial individuals for their concern with sorcery and witchcraft, but he also acknowledges a functional aspect

to the phenomenon as a means of self-assertion, status levelling and economic competition:

To sum up, the black art is used not only for collecting bad debts and

enforcing economic obligation, in vendetta to avenge one’s own sickness

or one’s kinsman’s death, to wipe out any serious insult offered to one, and for the sake of ‘trying it out’ to see how it works. It is also used generally ‘to cast down the mighty from their seat. [1932: 175-76]

In fact, the egalitarian ethic is a resistant foil to individuals who attempt

to ‘show-off’ (gagasa) at the expense of others. When a person is said

to ‘show-off’, this statement implies his or her lack of ‘respect’ and ‘friendliness’ or ‘generosity’. It applies to anyone who makes a point of working harder than others, boasting about his or her own achievements

and exploiting them without either sharing or exercising polite restraint.

The metaphor of vertical movement is used in Dobu: witchcraft and sorcery are the means to ‘bring down’ individuals who are too ambitiously motivated (nuatue, literally ‘the mind climbs up’). Only a 117

Google

Dobu

senior person’s striving for fame is socially respected; it is accepted

under the presumption that his or her secret power must have prevented previous attacks and will probably do so in the future as well. It has often been argued that the fear of witchcraft and sorcery is a

basic element of Melanesian society, enforcing morals and keeping

personal conflicts within a frame of covert revenge.? An analysis of this belief system in relation to the concept of the person gives further insights. Macintyre points to the value of such an approach:

Stories about witches and spirit beings of various sorts provided far richer material on Tubetube ideas of embodiment, social and individual morality, and personhood than did the abstraction and symbolisation of objects in mortuary ceremonies. [1995: 40]

In Dobu, witchcraft and sorcery are not conceptualised as absolutely

exclusive domains of men and women. The distinction is not as clear

as in other societies in Melanesia or Africa. Both are incorporated in

the sphere of exchange through their ability to mediate emotions and

relationships. As I will show here, gifts of ‘poison’ (bolausa) are integrated in the belief system as ‘reply’ (e’isa) or ‘repayment’ (maisa): a retributive measure responding to the victim’s ‘bad conduct’ that can

be characterised as ‘negative exchange’. My focus of interest is the impact of witchcraft and sorcery on the mind. From a phenomenological perspective, the mind is subject to ‘magical seduction’ (to use Weiner’s term [1984]). At a more analytical level, I argue that this belief system

has a compelling effect on people’s minds. It induces a strongly developed sense of self-consciousness founded on the belief of constant social control through surveillance: the eternal gaze.

On Dobu, sorcery is regarded as a set of predominantly male techniques that are often acquired from Duau, ‘where the real sorcerers come from’. Witchcraft is a female practice that has ‘always been with Dobu women’. These gender roles are flexible, though with a female

bias: while most women know minor sorcery and healing techniques,

men can only occasionally become witches (Roheim 1948-49: 305). In

talk about both matters a stereotypical gendering is assumed by Dobu

informants but in concrete cases it is not so simple. As in Tubetube,

where according to Macintyre ‘the powers of witches and sorcerers are in fact viewed as overlapping rather than distinct’, men and women

can be both sorcerers and witches, using ‘similar spells for the same ends’

(1987:

222).

According

118

Google

to Dixon,

the term

for ‘a woman

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery

unacquainted with witchcraft’ is sinetai— sine means woman, tai means

man, so that sinetai refers to a woman who is more like a man because she is not a witch (Dixon n.d.: 166). The following table compares

distinctive attributes of witches and sorcerers stipulated by informants

in Dobu:

Table 8: Characteristics of witchcraft and sorcery Witch (welabana)

Sorcerer (balau)

intrinsic power

extrinsic power

knowledge (‘fire’) received as child

all women always denies being a witch

knowledge (spells etc.) received as adult

only people with prestige is proud of knowledge

eats corpses operates as part of a coven

strict diet to stay ‘hot’ operates alone

typical ‘Dobu feature’

mainly imported from Duau

regarded as ‘cold’

burns when taking Holy Communion

is ‘envious’ and evil

regarded as ‘hot’

can take Holy Communion

is ‘angry’

This table shows that there is a clear dichotomous attribution to the roles of welabana

and

balau.

According

to Stephen,

however,

distinctions between ‘sorcerer’ and ‘witch’ begin to blur when comparing belief systems in Melanesia (1987: 286).* For the Dobu situation, she proposes the term ‘female sorcery’ instead of ‘witchcraft’: [The Dobu witch] is associated with the devouring mother and other

images of destructive female powers, the Dobuan sorceress deliberately

conjures such images, using them to intimidate and control others... Dobuan and Trobriand female sorcery can be seen as a reflection of the high status women have in these societies, since women are able to turn fears of their powers into a means of intimidating others. [Stephen 1987: 287]

In Stephen’s comparative perspective, the Massim witch shows little

resemblance to, for example, the Highlands witch, being more

legitimately established in a matrilineal regime that does not discriminate against women as the ‘weaker’ sex. In this regard, welabana indeed have more in common with Melanesian sorcerers in their way of

mediating ‘supernatural’ power (see Stephen 1987: 277). Stephen 119

Google

Dobu

explains the power of Massim ‘sorceresses’ in terms of their ideology of matrilineal descent, giving more social responsibility to women and

thereby approximating the image of the sorcerer as the ‘punitive father

figure’ who wields political power (1987: 265, 291ff). Although her argument 1s convincing in a comparative view of witchcraft, I retain

the classic terminology for practical reasons. By restricting my argument

to the Dobu perspective of welabana (witches) and balau (sorcerers), I

use the English terms for the reader’s convenience, without assuming,

that they provide an adequate translation.

Contrasting witchcraft and sorcery with other aspects of gender in Dobu, one finds interesting similarities to the management of Big Gifts. As I pointed out in Chapter 4, women exercise absolute and exclusive

control over yams, while both sexes compete for ’une (pigs and shell

valuables). In the same way, women receive supernatural knowledge unconditionally as children, while both sexes have to compete

for

sorcery spells.’ Like yams, witchcraft is passed on within the matrilin-

eage, while the acquisition of sorcery spells requires an adept’s ‘work’ and ‘help’ for the mentor as well as a ‘payment’. Sorcery is therefore seen as extrinsic, as ‘expensive knowledge’, while witchcraft is more

like an intrinsic talent — or a curse.‘ Macintyre has observed a matrilineal bias in Tubetube society on similar grounds (1987: 221-22).

This ideology is directly related to notions of power and social conduct, explaining Roheim’s view that ‘the barau is always an esa’esa, the witch rarely an arawata’ (1948-49: 292). As witches are believed

to transmit their power to their daughters at an early age, no consideration of the daughter’s social skills can precede initiation and hence

some witches end up with more power than they can use wisely. Sor-

cerers, by contrast, have proven their social skills before they are given

secret spells in an ongoing process of evaluation by elders. Senior

women, however, are always treated with the utmost friendliness and

respect for fear of their supposed retributive capacities as witches. Macintyre argues that the concept of witchcraft bolstered the authority of women in Tubetube: Indeed, people believed that if a senior woman was insulted or offended she would vindictively destroy garden crops or kill her own grandchildren. Witchcraft was a mighty sanction available only to women and women with such powers at their disposal were not to be

trifled with. [1987: 217] 120

Google

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery Witches are believed to cooperate in their activities, dance in the bush

at night, alter their appearance, and have a ‘fire’ (kaiya-) in their vaginas

(perceived as a body part, as the possessive suffix indicates).’ In contrast, sorcerers are expected to act in secret as single persons, invisible rather than altered, and without special body substances.* In spite of

their ‘fire’, witches are regarded as ‘cold’ in contrast to sorcerers, who need to be ‘hot’ for their activities (Roheim 1948-49: 300). The symbolic

significance of ‘cold’ and ‘hot’ has been discussed above in relation to other bodily states. The fundamental differences between them are also

reflected in the missionaries’ declaration that became common belief

that witches die (burned by their internal fire, kaiya-) when taking

Holy Communion, while sorcerers do not. The skills and desires of witches (also discussed by Bromilow 1910:

473; 1912: 418-19) have been briefly outlined in Chapter 2. Dobu

people believe that the most potent sorcery techniques were brought

to Dobu from Duau while witchcraft is believed to have evolved locally.° For this reason, witches of Dobu Island and Bwaiowa (south

Fergusson Island) are particularly dangerous, while other Massim ar-

eas, even Kiriwina, are said to be free of witchcraft.'° Although said to

be more powerful, the witches of Dobu share general features with

those of Duau (Roheim 1948-49, 1950a: 202ff; Thune 1980: 96ff; Schlesier 1983: 125) and Tubetube (Macintyre 1987, 1995).!! Witches

are occasional lovers of the powerful bush spirit Taumudumudulele,

who is believed to be the genitor of all children with ginger-coloured

hair and light skin.'* Witches are believed to crave human flesh and to

kill for the purpose of eating their victims’ bodies after burial.'? Sometimes, being about to kill, a witch would begin a nocturnal wailing

called dopelapela (literally ‘crying-throwing’)."* People’s accounts of

encounters with witches always mention the changed features of the witch in contrast to her normal face: the eyes become big and round,

the nose grows much longer, the ears become large, the tongue hangs out of the mouth. These terrifying features reflect the witches’ enhanced capacities to see, smell and hear, and to be greedy for food. All the witnesses who spoke to me about these matters reported their terrible fear, described as a feeling of coldness inside the body, of a contraction

of the stomach, and of cold sweat. A woman who had lived most of

her life in urban settlements told me that she used not to believe in witchcraft, until one night she had a feeling of panic and felt sure she 121

Google

Dobu

could sense the presence of a witch. With prayers, she concluded, she made the witch go away, but she felt very uneasy about staying on Dobu and planned to return to town.

Witches are thought to kill more frequently than do sorcerers. The

most dangerous witches are the women who live in the same hamlet as

oneself.!5 Some women are said to be worse than others, ‘champions’ through inheritance from their mothers who had also been ‘champions’. Self-control is an important capability for a witch; she has to pretend to be a good woman, always friendly and helpful, generous

and warm hearted. But in her witch guise she lets it all go; she is greedy and evil, dangerous and super-powerful, envious and full of hatred.'*

Although the secret organisation of the witches is said to be structured around hamlets, villages or localities, their meetings are irregular.

Dances take place on moonless nights and if there has been no death

for a long period, hunger for meat forces the welabana to take action.'” Witches are also individually active and love to roam at night on sinister private business. In this regard they resemble sorcerers, who generally act as individuals in the dark. As individuals, their power depends on their ‘name’ and their status, both the results of their ‘work’

in the past. In these terms, a person’s power is not judged on principles

of gender but on a level of personal interaction based on intimate knowl-

edge of one another’s behaviour. As on Tubetube Island, an individual’s potency is assessed on personal grounds and almost regardless of gender. In relation to a case of public sorcery accusation Macintyre

states:

In their evaluation of sorcery and witchcraft speakers stressed that neither was the greater form of magical power but that variations

occurred on the basis of individual knowledge. The relative potency of

specific spells could only be assessed in terms of actual cases. [1987: 226] Negative exchange

Witchcraft and sorcery exist as causal interpretations of sickness and

death. As such, they are elements of everyday interactive discourse and exchanges. The punitive reaction of a sorcerer or witch is interpreted as a reply (e’isa) or ‘payback’ (maisa). It seems reasonable to assume

that from a Dobu point of view witchcraft and sorcery are part and parcel of the same system of exchange. From an economic perspective 122

Google

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery

they belong to the sphere of ‘negative exchange’, a term employed by

Sahlins (after Gouldner 1960), since they are valued as ‘negative’ in a

moral sense, like ‘self-interested seizure’ and ‘forceful appropriation’

(Sahlins 1972: 191). Not only do the actions of sorcerers and witches

cause negative emotions such as pain and grief, but they are also understood to be antisocial ways of dealing with one’s own negative emotions of ‘anger’ and ‘envy’. Furthermore, in the context of kula

exchange, sorcery and witchcraft are typical sanctions between rivals

or competitors; in this respect they might be considered to be part of ‘negative exchange’ as Munn employs the concept with reference to

Gawa witchcraft in her analysis of the symbolic transformation of

values. For Gawans, the witch represents pure selfishness, the antisocial

attitude par excellence (1990: 5).'* ‘Even though the witch’s victim

may be guilty of a moral fault, the witch is clearly regarded by Gawans as not simply wrong

but evil’ (1986: 227). Munn

witchcraft may well constitute a type of exchange:

concludes that

Acts of ‘exchange’ and ‘witchcraft’ (and the characteristic structuring of the relevant practices) are then related within the terms of the model as parts of a unitary dialectical symbolism of self and societal

construction. [1986: 267]

In her analysis, Munn points out that her Gawan informants describe a greedy and selfish person (the archetypical attributes of a witch) as

‘one who eats’ (1986: 220).'? In this light, the consumption of a corpse

can be interpreted as a witch’s gift to herself and her companions to

satisfy their ‘greed’, disregarding the communal ‘work’ that the mortuary feasting demands of all their relatives who ‘do not eat’.

Similarly, a witch who sacrifices her children to Taumudumudulele in

exchange for a better yam harvest acts selfishly because the whole hamlet

has to contribute wealth for mortuary feasting while she alone benefits from her extra vegetable wealth. Greed and selfishness (which in Dobu

terms represent a lack of self-discipline and ‘respect’) are typical of witches and form an aspect of Dobu life that is expected to exist forever.

The diagram below draws on the moral distinction of ‘negative’

and ‘positive’ in showing the effects of conduct (or ‘work’) on a person’s physical appearance and social standing. Exchanges on this level are conceptualised as being caused by the supernatural powers of individual agents, whether witches or sorcerers.

123

Google

Dobu

Diagram 7: Effects of conduct on personal appearance POSITIVE EXCHANGE

Good conduct

}->

+

Goodlooking, healthy person, always happy, well respected feasted after death

NEGATIVE EXCHANGE Sick and ugly person, Bad conduct

+»

° In this

sense, ‘magical seduction’ can be seen as violent rather than as ‘persua-

sion and consent’, a form of conquest or reprisal, a ‘gift that kills’.

In Dobu, a constant awareness of one’s situation in relation to

witches and sorcerers is vital for survival. They are the neighbours who gaze at one’s everyday activities with magically enhanced senses,

having access to intimate information and forcing their will upon one’s mind. Their capacity to kill by magic is feared, though it is more com130

Google

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery

mon to use gossip, ‘words that kill’, as an initial measure to express

their discontent about a person’s ‘bad conduct’. The similarity of both

strategies of social control is reflected in the frequently heard maxim

that ‘gossip and witchcraft will never stop’.3!

Fear can be seen as an important mechanism of social control. From this functional perspective, the infliction of pain (or grief over the death of a loved one) is a legitimate punishment that has a major impact on social life. People assume that the fear of pain or grief induces or sanctions good behaviour, and in the eyes of Dobu elders, the younger

generation’s lack of ‘respect’ is a result of a weakening of this pre-

Christian ethic. I have mentioned the ideal relationship between beauty,

health and social status. Within this paradigm, ‘bad’, ‘ugly’, ‘ignorant’,

‘powerless’ people are victims of the corporal punishment of disease infliction, while ‘healthy’, ‘handsome’, ‘wise’ and ‘knowledgeable’ peo-

ple are either spared punishment or able to cure themselves (see also Fortune 1932: 176-77).

It is'in line with my argument that wrong behaviour, unwelcome character traits, and personal flaws are seen as the ‘roots’ of trouble. Within this scheme, pity cannot be highly valued for it is understood

as an interference with someone’s revenge rather than as a positive emotion of empathy. Accordingly, comments on a person’s accident, sickness, or disease usually stress that there is a reason behind it: e’ina!

(serves you right!), ‘now you feel it!’; alternatively, comment is spared altogether. The reason may also lie in general conditions: ‘When the yalasi wind blows we get a cold’; ‘When the mango trees bear flowers,

we get a running nose and headache’. Or it can be due to stupid behav-

iour: ‘No wonder he has got a fever, why did he go swimming in the

sea every day? Sea water is very strong. If we drink it we get sick after some days.’ ‘The children are all sick with a sore throat. Too many mangoes! It is the same every year’. These causal links are also often

suggested in ‘hidden talk’, when no-one wants to mention the suspicion of sickness or death being caused by serious ‘bad conduct’. The following episode made it clear to me that attempts of medical help

from an outsider (like me) were not always welcome and even seen as

undermining the established (though constantly negotiated) modes of social control. I stayed for a week in another village that was preparing for a huge feast and felt disgust as well as pity for one of the women who had a

131

Google

Dobu

big infected sore on her leg. An owner of that hamlet, she looked after a small child while helping with the preparations for the exchange

celebrations and I asked her about the kind of treatment she had already

tried to heal the ulcer. She replied that neither antibiotic injections nor

dressing of the wound had improved it and said that it seemed as if she just had to live with it. Her answer puzzled me and I followed the story up, to find out that everyone saw the ulcer as a just punishment for her absence from the hamlet at some earlier stage of the preparations. ‘We worked here and she stayed in her garden hut with her husband. She did not help us. So now she can feel it and we don’t help her, too.’ One

woman showed me her big scar and explained that she had an ulcer

similar to the other woman’s but it was treated by a male member of the hamlet and healed within three days. ‘This ulcer cannot be treated with Western medicine (konin), it’s a “Dobu sore” that she contracted by walking past a plant enchanted with a tabu spell. This means that it

can only be removed by the owner of the spell and if he wants to punish

her - he can. And she will feel it.’ [Field Notes]

The threat of physical pain is a common method of disciplining children,

as I often observed. When curious children wanted to enter my house, their care-giver immediately called them back with hasty, hissing exclamations: ‘Don’t go inside, there are witches (or snakes)!’ This

fear, instilled in early childhood, is perpetuated throughout life. Personal

faults and risky behaviour (like accepting food or betel nuts from certain

people) are strongly discouraged by the parents, who argue that the child can get hurt as a result of ‘bad’ conduct. At the same time, the presence of witches and sorcerers is often pointed out to the child, usually as animals that are known as those adopted by witches as

disguises. As a result children are very scared of fireflies, especially at certain times of the night, when it is assumed that the insect must be a

witch. This fear is reinforced by a genre of ‘true stories’ about incidents

of corporal punishment, interpreted as caused by a witch or sorcerer.

The stories emphasise the same ethical principles of respect, modesty,

generosity, and self-control by reminding the audience of the physical

harm that often follows ‘bad conduct’. The genre also includes stories about knowledgeable (‘good’) men who use methods of sorcery to detect and evade the threat. They support my observations that the fear of witchcraft is not so prominent in older people who often claim to have

secret knowledge to protect them.

The combination of a general fear of physical punishment and the

132

Google

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery

awareness of a punisher’s powerful capacity to penetrate one’s mind

leads, as I will argue, to an expanded and intensified self-consciousness with respect to both one’s inner states and one’s social standing. I believe that Fortune and others are wrong to interpret this state as ‘paranoia’, and argue instead that fear is less a pathological state in Dobu than a social tool, deploying ‘real stories’ of painful punishments

administered by sorcerers and witches. This genre of narratives about

welabana typically requires a certain setting. The tales are usually told

in a low voice with a conspiratorial tone. As the usual time for storytelling is after the evening meal, signs of the presence of witches are constantly monitored. Fireflies, certain other insects and birds, per-

haps witches in disguise, often interrupt, sometimes even terminate the narratives. The stories evoke both terror and assurance of one’s own security for the time being. A typical example of night-time tales about witches that I was told may serve as an illustration here: My teacher had a brother who was married into Dobu. One night he

woke up, missed his wife and secretly followed her. She was in the bush, sitting by a new grave in a cemetery with some other women. All

were witches, as he could tell from the way they looked. He was scared

but stayed for a while, observing the exhumation and the subsequent cutting of the body into pieces that were given to individual women. With terror the secret observer noticed that the head was given to his

own wife. This meant that she had to contribute the next victim for a feast. So the man knew that he would be the next one to die. He left his wife the very next morning.*? [Field Notes]

Men’s fear of witchcraft in affinal hamlets has been emphasised by Fortune (for example, 1954a [1932]). Only a few male friends told me

that they felt threatened by their wives and their female matrilineal relatives, and only then during confidential, intimate discussions about

hopes, fears, regrets and life in general. They served to explain my friends’ pessimistic outlooks — or their intentions of leaving Dobu Island and living elsewhere (perhaps in Germany?). Some women are known

to be ‘champion witches’ and there are many stories told to prove it. A

concrete accusation of this (its basis the hearsay deemed improper within the matrilineage) was made for my benefit by a truly close friend who

(like so many others) was worried about my frequent contact with a particular woman: 133

Google

Dobu You

know, when she lived in her husband’s place [adjacent to the

narrator’s hamlet] one morning she got up very early to fetch water at the well. The other women were still sweeping the place but she went with her small son. When they were at the well her face changed into

the way witches look. Her eyes and ears became large and her mouth

very big. She started to dance. Maybe she got carriéd away by some

evil thoughts, we don’t know.

But we saw her son, who was very

frightened and ran back to the village. The little boy did not know, he only told us what he had seen. Since then, we all know. Of course, we

would never talk about it with her. [Field Notes]

Women and men also told me about their own hamlet mates killing for consumption or as repayment. I was often admonished to take precautions against potential witchcraft, especially when visiting other

hamlets.

Don’t put the lamp low during the night because we have someone who is close to death in our village. The witches can smell this and it makes them happy and greedy. They stay close to the village and wait until the death. If it takes too long they might take the initiative or even kill somebody else. So take care, don’t go out at night and leave the

lamp on full. [Field Notes]

You never know... the loophole

In connection with the fear of witches, the concept of ‘tricking’ is of

importance. I was told many times, and in elaborate detail, how ‘smart’ people can ‘trick’ a witch, bribe her with gifts to change her into a ‘guardian angel’, and even make her ‘forget everything’ forcing her to turn into a normal woman. According to my informants, it is not

difficult to see a witch by using the ‘native video’ (as English-speaking

Dobu islanders would have it), ‘eno’matamata’ita’ita, literally ‘asleepthe-eyes-are-watching’.® It needs a ‘trick’ (kabo) to influence someone’s

mind for one’s own benefit, and only smart people are qualified to use lies and tricks in this way. As long as nobody finds out, the practice attracts no moral stigma. Only those who have suffered a loss through

somebody’s kabo would complain afterwards, by reporting the case to

the Dobu village councillor for example. However, according to general opinion kabo is a legitimate way of achieving a goal, proof of intellectual 134

Google

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery strength indeed. ‘Ya kabokabo!’ (I have tricked you!) is the happy exclamation of a child who has successfully pulled somebody’s leg.

Instead of the word ‘lie’, the word ‘trick’ or ‘tricking’ is used in every context when speaking English. This point is important with regard to the efficiency of sorcery and

witchcraft. Firstly, when valuable information, such as secret spells, is given away under pressure it is likely that the informant will be ‘tricking’ in some detail, thereby rendering the magic powerless. Fortune’s data are surely correct in a general sense, as his informants did not remodel the general procedures or ingredients of sorcery methods. I

was reminded by Dobu friends that it is very common to specify the

‘wrong’ plant, spell, or procedure if one is ‘tired of being asked for it

again and again’, just as one ‘tricks’ in material matters when demands

become unreasonable. Fortune’s data on sorcery are therefore useless in the eyes of Dobu people who believe that he must have been ‘tricked’

by his Tewara sorcerers with incomplete spells or incorrect ingredients. Secondly, as an important element of homicide by either witches or sorcerers, ‘tricking’ emerges as a means of domination. People are ‘tricked’ into the illusion of safety; they trust the wrong man or woman,

give an opportunity to the sorcerer or witch, and are then killed in secret. The successful killer, male or female, cannot rely on physical strength, as open violence is despised (and criminal these days). Those

who are ‘tricked’ and get sick or die, are also social ‘losers’ because they were not able to defend themselves with counter spells, the support of a knowledgeable elder, or intelligence and ‘gut feeling’. It is understandable that the possibility of ‘tricking’ creates an atmosphere of insecurity for the individual. Events that are not compre-

hensible in terms of the ideology I have described can be traced to someone’s ‘tricking’. Sickness, for example, can be caused by one’s

“best friend’, who was ‘only tricking’ when acting like a friend, but had

buried inside his or her ‘heart’ ‘anger’ or ‘envy’, only waiting for the time to inflict punishment. Both sorcery and witchcraft fundamentally

depend on ‘tricking’, luring a prospective victim with the illusion of

friendship in order to cast a final spell, pass a poisoned betel nut, or

organise a meeting that has a fatal outcome for the naive.** The con-

vention of having to ‘try out’ sorcery for the first time within one’s own matrilineage leads to fear and suspicion within the group. Its

equivalent

for

witches

is the

rule

that

the

supernatural

135

Google

Dobu

Taumudumudulele must be given a pig or a child in exchange for his efforts to secure them a good harvest. Dobu people believe that mothers ‘trick’ their children; husbands their wives, and neighbours each other, if they choose to, into accepting a ‘gift that kills’. The ‘gift that kills’ is a form of punishment, an ‘answer’ or a ‘repayment’ to those who upset the delicate balance between sharing and hiding, by either not sharing (being stingy) or not hiding (being arrogant, showing off). Witches and sorcerers are taken for granted on Dobu as ‘natural’ forces with secret, inherited power and moral legiti-

macy for their activities.** It is unfortunate that Fortune’s account has created an image of a purely destructive and selfish use of sorcery (Patterson

1974:

214).

As far as I know,

open

accusations

and

divinations as described by Fortune (1932: 156-57) are not made on

Dobu, where it is regarded as very offensive to publicly identify someone a witch.*¢ With reference to the Dobu person, I have argued that sorcery and witchcraft beliefs function primarily to induce self-discipline by posing the threat of surveillance and punishment. For Western observers who do not share this belief system, the profound fear it causes is hard to understand.

For this reason, perhaps, academic discourse has often

glossed the fear as ‘paranoia’, a pathological mental state.?” As such, its roots would have to be located within the person, as a mental condition or temporary psychosis that can be cured in therapy. The notion of ‘paranoia’ has been further developed by Schwartz (1973), who

argues that a ‘paranoid ethos’ is typical of Melanesian societies. ‘Dobu’ became a major case study in anthropological theory, an example of a society built upon antisocial principles. In Sorcerers of Dobu, Fortune places much emphasis on the theme of conflict, and although his account is more balanced than Benedict’s travesty, the impression he gives of Dobu life is one of pervasive, indeed constitutive antagonism: Underneath the surface of native life there is a constant silent war, a

small circle of close kindred alone placing trust in each other... [T]reacherous poisoning is a common enough custom. [1932: 137]

Fortune’s perspective was adopted by Benedict, who had access to his unpublished field notes. Fortune’s impression of Dobu was indeed so negative that Benedict felt compelled to wonder about it in a letter to him: 136

Google

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery L enjoyed the Dobuan material immensely. After I'd read a couple of hours Id feel they’d all been sold to the devil. How did you stand it?

Did they have any sets of subterfuges for eluding the fear they were

always institutionalizing? And how did it affect personal relations — at the family hearth did they persist in their picture of an enemy alliance?

[10 January 1929, quoted in Mead 1966: 311]

Fortune, at the time on fieldwork in the Admiralty Islands, replied some months later and reiterated his previous points:

No, there were no sets of subterfuges for eluding the institutionalized fear. They always inferred lack of faith in others (for fear of poison).

Maropa, my sorcerer lad, seemed to have a fish with a poisonous gall

always to hand concealed in the bush to put in food if necessary (he had one when I was there anyway). At the family cook pot the man and wife did not eat together ever that I saw... Fear of the night never lessened — as also fear of neighbours; in bodily form more in the day, in spiritual form more in the night, though that is no thorough going

distinction. [3 May 1929, quoted in Mead 1966: 312-13]

In Patterns of Culture, Benedict accordingly describes Dobu as a violent society without any system of social control, as ‘lawless and treacherous” (1934:

131). This characterisation remoulds Fortune’s Dobu

into a

bizarre society that bears no resemblance to ‘my’ Dobu. In contrast to the established image of ‘Dobuan paranoia’, I posit a fear that is in

effect an experience constitutive of self-awareness and a sense of social situation.** I suggest it is more appropriate to interpret this fear as a

logical consequence of belief in punitive ‘supernatural’ powers. The fear of being caught and punished for ‘wrong’ behaviour compels Dobu

people to conduct themselves well on the whole and gives rise to the

bad conscience of having done something ‘wrong’ at some time. If the term ‘paranoia’ must be used at all, it seems to fit rather in the sense of Strathern’s description of the Hageners’ reactions of panic to a new ‘supernatural’ power beyond their control and comprehension (1982).°°

To my understanding of the Dobu perspective, the most frighten-

ing aspects of sorcery and witchcraft are their established and generally accepted capacities of surveillance and of control over a person’s mind. The Dobu experience of fear is understandable when related to

the symbolic system outlined in this chapter. It is self-conscious fear,

not pathological paranoia that ‘automatically’ restricts movement in 137

Google

Dobu

space, circumscribes interaction with people, and encourages personal secrecy in general. This fear urges a person to act according to ac-

cepted ethics to achieve a reputation as ‘good’.

Exchange of the gaze: a panoptic perspective

To clarify my argument further, I shall employ the model of the Panopticon, developed by the philosopher Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832)

and used by Foucault to demonstrate mechanisms of social power (1977: 200ff).

In both a Dobu

hamlet and in a Panopticon,

the

individual’s awareness of being under surveillance results in acute self-

consciousness regardless of whether the surveillance is actually continuous. The Panopticon was constructed as a model prison, with

around structure containing the cells for the prisoners and a surveillance

tower in the centre. Windows allowed a supervising warder, positioned in the central tower, to observe any prisoner at any time without the prisoner’s knowledge. The architecture of the Panopticon made use of optical laws; during daytime the warder could observe the prisoners

easily as they were silhouetted against the light that entered through

windows in the outer wall of the building, while the prisoners were unable to tell whether the tower was manned or not, because the lookout

was located higher than the cells and appeared to them as a dark structure against a bright sky. As a

result, a prisoner was always in

doubt about being observed. The chances were that any form of misbehaviour would be immediately noticed - and subsequently punished. Hence the major effect of the Panopticon: to induce in the inmate a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power... In view of this, Bentham laid down the principle that power should be visible and unverifiable. Visible: the inmate will

constantly have before his eyes the tall outline of the central tower

from which he is spied upon. Unverifiable: the inmate must never know whether he is being looked at at any one moment; but he must be sure that he may always be so. [Foucault 1977: 201]

Applied to Dobu society, the Panopticon is physically manifested in

the roughly circular structure of the hamlet with house verandas facing inwards

to its centre. Although

138

Google

lacking a central tower,

acts of

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery Diagram 8: Bentham’s Panopticon

Central watchtower

I

Prisoners’ cells

Barred windows surveillance are carried out by fellow neighbours who register every sound, sight, and smell that escapes a house or kitchen hut. Such close observation discourages individuals from retreating into their houses for reasons other than to sleep at night lest they be suspected of having

something to hide. But even inside the house, in the private space of a

garden, in a canoe on the sea, on a lonely seashore, or in the bush, a

person knows that he or she might be under observation. The mechanical principle of light effects in combination with a cen-

tral tower, used in the Panopticon as a device for secret surveillance,

can be compared with the ideology of witchcraft and sorcery in Dobu. The supernatural skills of sorcerers and witches are based on the notion

of secrecy and knowledge. Like a warder in his tower, a Dobu ‘magi-

cian’ can observe without being seen: in the body of an animal or fully invisible, coming and going like lightning, moving easily through water, in the air, and over land. The Dobu person can never be entirely safe

from intruders in the private sphere, neither in the house nor in the

mind. The personal consciousness of surveillance is similar to the effect

produced in the Panopticon and it is this feeling of being continually

watched that has been misinterpreted as ‘paranoia’ (by Fortune,

Benedict, Lepowsky 1994: 203, and Schwartz 1973).

Foucault describes the Panopticon as a ‘marvellous machine which produces homogenous effects of power’ (1977: 202). In this connection, too, an analogy with the structure of a Dobu hamlet is illuminat-

ing. In an egalitarian society there are neither cells nor walls to sepa-

rate people. The senior inhabitants, however, have more authority, because they are assumed to be the most powerful witches and sorcerers. 139

Google

Dobu

In-married junior men are in the weakest position because they are assumed to have only a limited knowledge of sorcery spells

(nabwasuwa). The image of an invisible ‘magical surveillance tower’

that overshadows the hamlet is supported by the former custom of

primary burial in the centre of the hamlet (bolu). The spirits of the ancestors (yaluyaluwa) are believed to inhabit the centre area of a hamlet, minutely observe its inhabitants’ behaviour (bubuna) and partici-

pate in social activities. The ‘gaze of the ancestors’ is metaphorically

similar to the Panopticon’s tower. In symbolic terms, the tower is vis-

ible to Dobu persons; in every discourse on cases of sickness and death

its presence is re-established and reconfirmed.

This issue leads directly to the question of the impact of missionaries on the ideology and practice of witchcraft and sorcery. The meta-

phors of ‘light’ and ‘darkness’ were used by missionaries who applied

the dichotomy in the construction of ‘Christianity’ in their battle against witchcraft and sorcery (see also Young 1980). This opposition sug-

gests the existence of two separate belief systems, though Lawrence convincingly showed that witchcraft and sorcery and Christianity can also be conceptualised as forming a single belief system that is subject to constant adjustments and ultimately syncretised (1987: 20-1). Incontemporary Dobu society, Christianity (tapwalolo) and West-

ern education (sikulu) have decisively changed the traditional belief

system.*° This process has been accelerated in Edugaula, the hamlet cluster around the mission station, the area where I lived during fieldwork. The people of Edugaula appear at first sight to adhere fully to

the Methodist doctrine of a God who demands the Sabbath to be ‘kept’

exclusively for Himself (exceptions are made for women who need to

cook and do their laundry). Former beliefs are partly forgotten, partly

diluted and not regarded as important any longer.*! To my understand-

ing, God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit have become integrated into the belief system and comprise a sort of higher institution. The ‘hamlet’ (asa) of God and the angels (anelose) in the sky has replaced the dwell-

ing of the former inhabitants, the ‘sky people’ (togalewa). This substi-

tution seems to be only gradual, because informants still elaborate on

the idea that ‘God’ is only another name for ‘Yabowaine’. The ‘sky people’ and their leader Yabowaine (who is still invoked at the begin-

ning of formal gift distributions from a platform), persist as vague ideas. ‘It is our custom, but we do not know it anymore’.*? 140

Google

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery

A hamlet on Dobu Island. To my knowledge, the impact of Christianity did not change the number

of witches on Dobu. Unlike in Molima, where witches increased after colonial contact (Chowning 1987: 174), the Dobu maxim that ‘every

woman is a witch’ remains in force. In order to ‘show respect to God’, people make attempts to give up sorcery, burn the notebooks containing spells, and involve themselves in church activities. They fail to realise, however, that they continue to operate within the same parameters of belief, perpetuating the fear of witches and sorcerers by praying to be spared by them. Macintyre reports that on Tubetube there was only one man, who was also an atheist, who did not believe in witchcraft.

She stresses the voluntary character of the participation in witchcraft:

‘For Christians, witchcraft was as much a way of behaving, a set of

practices, as a way of being, and as such it could be abandoned (or embraced) at will’ (1995: 42). From a Dobu perspective, a woman

who wants to give up witchcraft is expected to come under pressure from her fellow witches as well as from her lover, Taumudumudulele.

Only ‘if her will is very strong she can change into a normal woman’,

a woman who is like a man (sinetai). To my surprise, very few women

and men were prepared to take Holy Communion on baptism day. 141

ev

GO

gle

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

Dobu

Apparently it has been interpreted as an occasion for God’s punishment of sinners, and they fear being consumed by an internal flame. In this

sense, the ‘body of Jesus’ can be a ‘gift that kills’.

The surveillance and judgement of God, feared by every Christian sinner worldwide, are believed in Dobu to result in a final verdict (paradise or hell), but are feared less intensely, perhaps, due to the existing

parallel belief in a local afterlife on Mount Bwebweso. One might say

that God ‘in heaven’ is expected to do the final summing-up of sins,

while witches and sorcerers ‘on the ground’ respond to single sins by punishing sub-totals, so to speak.*? The Dobu perspective on Christi-

anity appears panoptic in essence, as God is conceptualised as a senior male who invisibly reigns above the clouds, taking account of people’s

sins and only occasionally confirming His presence by doing miracles.“ This perspective includes the notion of a punishing God who even killed his own son in retribution for our sins. Although it would

be angrily denied by Dobu Christians, this idea aligns with the pre-

Christian view of negative exchange as a payback for misconduct in

terms of witchcraft and sorcery, the ‘gifts that kill’.45 Notes 1 2

3 4 5

6

7 8

Stephen states that ‘death is specifically linked with punishment in

Melanesia’ (1987: 289). See also Munn (1990: 6).

for a Massim example for this kind of interpretation

See, for example, Chowning (1987: 149-50); Stephen (1987: 255); Lepowsky (1994: 202).

Patterson outlines the fundamental differences between Melanesia and Africa, the focal ethnographic area in former discussions of these issues

(1974: 132). Obviously, the term ‘supernatural’ refers to powers that are unacknowledged by Western understanding. Dobu people accept ‘supernaturals’ as natural elements of their world. Glick (1973) suggests the utility of a distinction between ‘extrinsic’ and ‘intrinsic’ in relation to sorcery and witchcraft in Melanesia (as quoted by Patterson 1974: 140). See also Bromilow (1910: 483ff; 1912: 425); Lithgow (1975); Roheim (1948-49: 279ff; 1950a: 213) for details and interpretations of kaiya-. In her account

of Tubetube

witchcraft, Macintyre

mentions

a: white

substance, like ambergris, that is located somewhere close to the kidneys of

142

Google

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery

witches (1995: 40). I did not hear about this in Dobu.

In contrast, Macintyre states that witchcraft in Tubetube is regarded more like a force from outside (1995: 42). 10 Malinowski, however, describes similar features of Kiriwina witches,

including the belief that they have sexual relationships with a spirit named

Tauva’u (1929: 41-2). Munn spells the name Tawuvaw for Gawa (1986: 219). He is probably identical with Tauhau, a notable Milne Bay

culture hero (see Kaniku 1975). Cecil Abel called Tau-Hau an ‘ancient and mystical lord’ (1967: 3).

11 The witches of Milne Bay, I was told many times, own a huge ship and have travelled on it as far as Japan and Australia. 12 According to Schlesier, in Me’udana (Normanby Island), Taumudumudulele is believed to be ‘the boss’ of the inhabitants of the underground, menumu

or gelaboi (1983: 113). In Tubetube, his name literally means ‘He-who-

tatoos-female-pudenda’, referring to a former practice of female initiation (Macintyre 1987: 215) also mentioned in Kaniku’s version. As in Dobu, he

is a culture-hero who sleeps with the witches. In Misima, he is the evil leader of all witches (Macintyre 1990: 84).

13 Endo-cannibalism is regarded as disgusting but viewed with less horror than in other regions of Papua New Guinea (cf. Strathern 1982). It is impossible to prove any connection with the exo-cannibalism of pre-colonial times, although there are some interesting differences and similarities. 14 The verb pela also refers to pushing a canoe into the sea, throwing yam

seeds on the mounds when planting them, and passing on a kula shell.

15 Digim’Rina has pointed out to me that from an economic perspective it is ‘cheaper’ to kill one’s own

hamlet fellow than to kill an affine, as the

mortuary feasting requires less outlay for a hamlet member (pers. comm., December 1997).

16 During my research, I was warned many times to stay away from certain individuals, and I know that some people were very worried about my

safety. I was told that my surviving fieldwork in spite of my material wealth,

occasional breaking of etiquette, chewing of ‘suspicious’ betel nuts, and general ignorance of ‘protective magic’, left quite a few people wondering whether I might be a witch myself. 17 The connection between eating meat (pork) and death is obvious to everyone on Dobu. Only feasts provide meat, and bwabwale is the most frequent occasion. As Edgar, my teenaged ‘brother’ put it: ‘People shall die so that we can eat pork!” 18 See also Lepowsky (1994: 285) and Macintyre (1995: 41) for similar observations.

143

Google

Dobu 19 See also Macintyre (1995: 41). For a further discussion of the notion of

‘eating’ see Chapter 8.

20 A similar argument is made by Stephen (1987: 250). 21 See also Munn (1990: 16 n.10). 22 The emotions of Gawa witches are described along similar lines (Munn 1986: 221).

23 This kind of magic is said to have been the reason for the past notoriety of the ‘Dobuans’ as fierce warriors. 24 As Stephen remarks from a comparative perspective, in Melanesia sorcery

and healing are often done by the same person, dealing with ‘everyday concerns’ of health as well as with sorcery practices (1987: 267).

25 See also Fortune 1960. 26 Fortune ‘tried it out’ with good results when he went to Basima (1932: 141). 27 See also Battaglia for an example of Sabarl (Louisiade) ‘love and kula magic’ (1990: 108-9).

28 It was Kaibado who promised help: ‘Ah, if that happens I can give you “something” to wash with and you will be free again. Don’t worry about it, just finish your work’. 29 See also Munn (1986: 68) for the Gawan concept of ‘intrinsic hiddenness

of another person’s views or intentions’ and ‘signs’ to uncover intentions

or hide them behind ‘pretense and deception’.

30 Patterson argues that ‘poison’ is actually a misnomer due to the questionable efficacy of the ‘poisons’ used (1974: 146), but from a Dobu perspective,

‘poison’ is used metaphorically as a means to conquer someone’s mind as

well as in the strict sense, in which, for example, tua (Derris root) is a fish poison (iyana adi bolausa) also capable of killing humans.

31 See also Brison 1992. 32 My informant preferred to tell the story in English, perhaps as a measure of secrecy. In retrospect, I believe that this was more often the case than I

realised during fieldwork. 33 Unfortunately, circumstances did not permit me to try this technique myself. 34 Fortune refers to kabo in the context of exchanges. He calls it wabuwabu however (1932: 193, 217-18).

35

See also Stephen (1987: 271): ‘Though the sorcerer trafficks with powers

beyond society and human morality, he nevertheless uses them within the

moral order’.

36 See also Fortune (1932: 45). Stephen notes that open accusations are rare in Melanesia (1987: 252).

37 Stephen remarks that in the same way some altered states of consciousness

are often referred to as ‘hysteria’, a pathological disturbance (1979: 4).

144

Google

The Gift that Kills - Witchcraft and Sorcery 38 For a critical comment of the concept of Melanesian ‘paranoia’ see also Patterson (1974: 134).

39 Strathern’s report of a recent incident of ‘witchcraft-paranoia’ in the

highlands is based on narratives that bear strong resemblance in form and content to the ‘true stories’ about Dobu witchcraft (1982: 116-17). 1 would

not be surprised if urban versions from Milne Bay, heard by workers in Port Moresby or Lae, had been the raw material for this contemporary hysteria. 40 Kahn argues that adaption to Christianity was selective in Goodenough Bay (1983). 41 However, see Schlesier for a comprehensive account of the cosmology of Me’udana people in Duau (1983: 107ff). Edoni attempts to reconstruct the pre-Christian belief system through semantic analysis (1989). 42 See Macintyre’s remark that Yabowaine can also be a respectful term of address for female ancestors (Ebwe’u Waine - One Woman) (1983d: 24). This statement seems persuasive but in contemporary Dobu Yabowaine is rather seen as a god, and hence, as male gendered (as in Abel’s account of

Suau cosmology [1967]), a pre-Christian concept of God the Father.

43 Haw’ofa’s report of the first Mekeo bishop who jokingly called himself the

44

‘sorcerer of God’ indicates that this belief is widespread (1981: 286ff).

The late SIL missionary David Lithgow reported such miracles; for example, a multiplication of his antibiotic tablets that enabled him to complete a

treatment.

45 For more detailed accounts of Christian belief in the Massim see Macintyre’s article on Misima syncretism and Thune’s analysis of a church service in Duau (both in Barker 1990: 101-25).

145

Google

Chapter 6 Grits oF CasH FoR GoD AND Goops Name of the gift: ebwaea daita (free gift, offering), lowaga (credit)

Tapwalolo: How to give to the Lord In the previous chapter, Christianity was identified as an important element of the contemporary belief system of Dobu. As such, it has an

impact on social relations by providing a range of strategic options for

those who seek to improve their social status. To be an active Christian (totapwalolo, literally ‘person-church-service’) is positively valued, for the individual’s ‘work’ for God

is believed to assist in the

universal ‘fight against Satan’. The United Church seeks the support of

its members in different ways, but most prominently in the annual

offering competition called ebwaea daita (free gift).' It may seem sur-

prising that these ‘free gifts to God’ were introduced without difficulty, as the concept of a gift without any obligation to return it does

not exist in Dobu. How do Dobu people interpret this ‘free gift’ in

terms of their understanding of exchange? Since Mauss’s critique of

Malinowski’s concept of ‘free gifts’ in Trobriand marriage, it has been accepted that all gifts are elements of ‘total exchange’ (Mauss 1990:

73). Certainly, some form of return is invariably conceptualised.

It is not merely that there are no free gifts in a particular place, Melanesia or Chicago for instance; it is that the whole idea of a free gift is based

on a misunderstanding. There should not be any free gifts. What is

wrong with the so-called free gift is the donor’s intention to be exempt

from return gifts coming from the recipient. [Douglas in Mauss 1990: vii]

Gifts of labour and money for the Church are interpreted as gifts for God - and as such they are not ‘free’ but tokens of a mutually supportive relationship. As Syme (1985) has convincingly argued, Bromilow’s

founding missionary party immediately established exchange relations with Dobu people that could be interpreted in local terms. Gifts like ‘help’ (/ema), ‘love’ (oboboma) and ‘work’ (paisewa) were readily un-

derstood as symbolising personal relationships with the missionaries and with God. And while it is impossible to assess the degree of belief 146

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods

in the idea that ebwaea daita is also a kind of insurance policy for a

ticket to paradise, traces of this concept certainly exist. As in hymn

number 333 of the Dobu Buki Tapwaroro (‘To the work’, translation

by the Reverend Lawson), God demands ‘work’ from His people:

‘Eaubada ’i bwaubwau! Omi wa paisewa!’ (God is shouting! You all

go and work!). Missionary sources record that in fact massive amounts of kula valuables were handed over to the missionaries as the earliest form of ebwaea daita (see also Macintyre 1983a: 282).

Today, people start to raise funds well ahead of the day of ebwaea

daita, which usually falls towards the end of the year. Each hamlet decides what amount has to be contributed by each household and those who are unable to pay are admonished (shamed) by the active Church members of the hamlet. In 1997, it was decided that Losina

inhabitants should give ten Kina per household, a huge sum for those

families whose only source of cash is sales in local markets and who also have to find their children’s school fees. The money was collected at a Sunday service after my departure, but the minister reassured me that, ‘as usual’, senior representatives of each hamlet would offer it

after slowly processing to the altar accompanied by the singing of the

congregation.’ The hymn that is sung during the collection of ebwaea daita provides an explanation for this offering, identifying it as a ‘gift of praise’ (tupu-, also used in other contexts, where it requires a coun-

ter-gift, a ‘payment for praise’). In the hymn, Jesus is related to ‘the olden days’ as linking Jerusalem with Papua. He deserves to be praised with a gift for He had given His life for ‘us’ (here the hymnist chose the

rhetorically persuasive ‘inclusive’ form of ‘us’, -da). It is not unlikely that this latter metaphor was one reason for the success of the early establishment of ebwaea daita. If reinterpreted from a Dobu perspective, the gift requested by the missionaries might have been identified as pwaoli, a ‘homicide payment’ of ‘une and yam. Hymn

394 prescribes money as the item of offering and induces guilt (shame,

omeiameia) for not giving enough. By offering all the ‘little’ that is available, and promising to seek more, the gift is presented as a symbol of submission and commitment to Jesus. After the money has been counted, announcements are made about the sums collected from the individual hamlets, hamlet clusters, and the total contribution from the Dobu Island community. In 1993, for

example, the hamlet clusters Edugaula and Mwanomwanona raised 147

Google

2381 Kina. This sum was donated by the inhabitants of twenty-five hamlets, totalling 151 houses or about 350 adults (a ratio of almost

seven Kina per adult). What is the reason for such eager parting with

money that is also needed for other purposes, such as school and hospital fees, and essential consumer goods? Hymn 394*

1.

Gogama me Papua Yesu ta da tupuna Nadigega lowaenei,

Children of Papua

Asa Yerusalema.

You shall praise Jesus As in olden days In Jerusalem.

2. Oboboma ai’aila

True love

Yesu ’i ebwaeda.

Manuda ’i mwawasa, Yesu ta da tupuna.

3.

’Ima money sinabwana

Store ’enaya ’igumwara

Ta gete giyokuna

A ebwaya manuyo. 4.

Is what Jesus gave us

He died for us

We shall praise Him. Our big money

In the store is finished Only this small amount

We offer to you.

To’ase ’a me’edi.

We feel ashamed For what we brought

Etamo bobogana.

That it will increase.

Maima omayamaya Ta anuwayaina,

5.

*Imu ebwaeadaita

’Atema ‘atagwara,

Tuta gete ’a sa’u. Yesu *uda loina.

But we hope

Your offering We put it now

In our ‘hearts’ we agree

Jesus, you shall rule.

Chorus:

Sipwa: ’enada, gogama,’enada, Si nono Yesu ta tupuna

They hear, Jesus we praise

Yesu ’ena ta wari.

We sing for Jesus.

O Osana, ta inana

Our voices, children,

O Hosanna, we shout,

If missionary strategies of conversion were to be successful their teach-

ings had to be understood in terms familiar to their audience. As Eves 148

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods

points out, the missionaries on Dobu attempted to change ‘the visible

form of bodies’ and their work performance as a strategy of changing

morals (1996: 89, 109, 119). That was successful, I believe, because it

was commensurate with the pre-Christian concept of the person.’ The

correlation of a person’s physical appearance and his or her ‘work’ for God formed a trope that could easily be understood by the Dobu con-

gregation. Even if the equation of ebwaea daita with the ‘homicide payment’ pwaoli did not persist (no one I asked interpreted it that

way), the notion of ‘good persons’ (here totapwalolo) ‘working’ for

God by gift-giving harmonises with the basic ideology of self-disci-

pline in parting with money as a sign of ‘respect’ and ‘love’ or ‘generosity’.

The first missionaries used the ‘sinful’ people of Dobu to legitimate

their own work, raising funds at home with exaggerated reports of the conversion process (see Young 1980). In contemporary Dobu I never witnessed any open resistance to, or defiance against, the Church, and

a majority acknowledged the United Church as a strong link to the rest

of the world. People know that their offering is used to pay pastors

and ministers, but some would wonder about the remainder. Often it

was stated that the rest of the money is used to help spread the mission to less ‘developed’ areas, an idea that is consistent with the enhanced

self-esteem of Dobu people, based on their belief that Dobu was ‘chosen by God’ to host the first Wesleyan mission station.

On contemporary Dobu Island, local ministers and pastors are in charge of all church activities. They conduct Sunday services, give funeral speeches, celebrate at annual baptisms and sometimes marriage feasts.° As professional confidants they also provide counselling

and support for personal problems and in times of sickness. As leaders of the United Church on Dobu, the minister and pastors call for church

meetings, represent Dobu in the Circuit, and provide many hours of

Bible study. A group of adults attends ekelesia (Ecclesia) meetings after Sunday service; most women celebrate Women’s Fellowship each Wednesday, and most adolescents enjoy Youth Fellowship as a heavensent opportunity to escape from hamlet surveillance and to get to know

members of the opposite sex. Almost all children are sent to Sunday

School and those who attend Dobu Primary School have access to further Bible studies. In general, involvement in church activities is encouraged by most 149

Google

Dobu adults and serves as a means of acquiring prestige. Even my friend J., a senior man in his sixties, who declared himself an active sorcerer and

killer of witches, did not reject the idea of church facilities. Like many other men, he preferred not to attend Sunday services (‘Boring!’). Nor did he approve of the Women’s Fellowship (‘Waste of time! Only for

the gossip!’). Not least, he made derogatory comments on the hypoctisy of Church activists who did not do what they preached (‘They are only showing off!’). In principle, however, he had a positive opinion about the presence of the Church on Dobu: When we are fine, why waste time singing hymns? Better to go and do

your work. As for me, I don’t like going to Church, but it’s good that we are Christians now. For when we get sick and die, that’s when the Church is good. We can say sorry (ta’ona) to God and go to heaven.

[Field Notes]

In this light, the gift of ebwaea daita signifies the acceptance of the

United Church, the conduit to a powerful and punishing God who is permanently engaged in fighting Satan, supported by His Son and the

Holy Spirit. The church offering can be interpreted as a compensatory

gift for Jesus, who has given His life for ‘us’, or as a ‘helping gift’ for

the church where it is needed to ‘fight Satan’ on earth and to ‘help’ people. God is thought to be in favour of those who conduct themselves well, sacrificing the little money that is at their avail as a form of self-discipline. In addition to this line of doctrinal reasoning, the annual

collection of ebwaea daita is seriously competitive, and therefore a matter of group pressure applied by those neighbours who are active Church members.

Competitiveness is familiar to Dobu people as kula expeditions are based on this principle. As in the raiding expeditions of pre-colonial

days, the kula trip is led by a ‘standard bearer’ (toni doe) who holds

the pandanus streamer or flag (doe), sets the goal for the trip, feeds the crew, and is responsible for the lives of his or her followers. The streamer

itself was also a receptacle of magic designed to stun the enemy in

fighting or to persuade the kula exchange partner.

During my 1997 field trip I learned the powerful spell of the mythical

kula hero Kasabwaibwaileta, that allegedly made his alan successful.

The spell is called ‘Kasabwaibwaileta’s doe’ and has to be whispered

onto a pandanus streamer that is hung up on a house post to flutter in

150

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods the breeze. As this magically imbued doe moves in the wind, it spreads its message to the kula partner: ‘Your partner will visit you, give him anything he wants!” [Field notes]

At the end of a kula trip, it is publicly evaluated whether the toni doe

has ‘taken’ the goal (ana doe) or whether he has ‘fallen’ instead. The doe as a symbol of competitiveness and leadership (not, however, as a

receptacle of magic) was seized upon by Bromilow, who made it the

emblem of the first youth fellowship, the White Standard Society (see

Young 1989: 115). The metaphor of ‘Jesus, the standard bearer’ found

its way into Dobu rhetoric, as, for example, in one of the most popular

hymns, Tonidoe wa ita’ita. The text of this hymn, number 87, creates

a visual image of Jesus with his pandanus standard fighting the evil

enemy, Satan, and announcing His wish that all be joined in the fight. The key terms in the rhetorical justification of ‘free gifts’ are ‘re-

spect’ for God and ‘good conduct’ by following His word. In this context, the donation of money is a sign of ‘respect‘ and a token of ‘selfdiscipline’.* By claiming the ethics of ‘respect’ and ‘good conduct’ for its own purposes, the Church appears as an institution that is offering

strategies for individual prestige through ‘work’ for God. Hymn 87”

Tonidoe wa ‘it‘ita,

Yesu nate nai? Tarauwara gote yaita?

To’umalina sa’i. Sipwa:

Wa ewaiwai, ’agu doe!

See the standard bearer,

Could this be Jesus? Who is the enemy?

It is the evil one. Chorus:

You shall enforce my standard

(group)!

Yesu i bwaubwau,

Jesus is calling out,

Yaita *i mwaumwau.

Who is staying behind?

Yesu ’ida Tonidoe,

Jesus is our (incl.) standard bearer,

This opportunity is embraced by a particular stratum of contemporary

Dobu islanders whose matrilineages historically provided the first and

second generation of local converts and missionaries who were subsequently able to put their children through a ‘Western-style’ education

system. Since the fourth generation of Christians has now reached 1$1

Google

Dobu

adulthood, the matrilineages of early converts (from hamlets such as Piesiya, Mulisi’iya, Mwemweyala, Losina, Nemunemu

and Doeluya)

have branched into urban settings. Those who return to Dobu after

decades of life in town often find it difficult to retain the prestige asso-

ciated with that lifestyle. Lacking the stamina, self-discipline, and practical knowledge to be successful in subsistence activities, to establish extended exchange networks and gain ‘a big name’, these returned migrants often realise they can only maintain their social standing by what they do best, ‘working’ for God. They have been brought up

with daily prayers, family devotions, and strict rules for the Sabbath.

They are accustomed adept at interpreting catering for meetings, hymns. Within this social

to improvising lengthy prayers for any purpose, texts from the Bible, skilled at organising and and able to remember the words of hundreds of

stratum, men and women are represented about

equally because married couples tend to pursue the same degree of Christian observance for the benefit of their children. The women’s engagement in church activities, however, is generally much greater, expressed in their weekly involvement in Women’s Fellowship. Every

Wednesday, fifty to a hundred women come together at the mission-

ary stations (Buduagula and Enaia) for a church service and a ‘recrea-

tional program’, comprising games and exercises. A small market is

also held, where women sell betel nuts and prepared foods (scones,

doughnuts, buns) and local snacks: strings of almonds, nuts cooked in

coconut cream, and seafood treats. Church activists organise fundraising events to finance their occasional retreats, crusades, workshops, con-

ventions, and camps. In 1997, these fundraisings were organised in a

style that I had not seen previously, whereby after the Sunday service the children were made to exchange decorated baskets and bags, containing small treats and a two Kina note. The money was removed

from each basket by the fellowship president while the children en-

joyed the other contents of the baskets. The name for this exchange, lokodokodo, means literally ‘to make-basket-for-basket’.

Both the women’s and the youth fellowships are organised in the standard (‘dimdim’) style with a president, a vice president, a treasurer and a secretary, a service leader and a prayer leader. Activists in a

fellowship group eventually receive a title (‘our president’) that serves

as a ‘big name’ and advertises the prestige of a (church) leader. Being a 152

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods

member of the Dobu Women’s Fellowship myself, I had plenty of op-

portunity to observe their attitudes and to learn about individual

motivations and expectations. For many women, fellowship is a mat-

ter of spiritual (‘work for the Lord’) as well as social obligation result-

ing from group pressure. Although in peak times of gardening many women complain about this additional demand on their work schedules, most enjoy it as a chance to rest from physical labour and engage

in conversation. For this reason, men sometimes jokingly refer to the

‘Women’s Fellowship as ‘Gossip-ship’, a point related to the widespread

male perception that those women who become Church activists are

typically ‘bossy’, ‘talkative’, ‘get angry too quickly’ and ‘don’t even

keep peace within their own families’. I observed that those women who are believed to be ‘champion witches’ also often involve themselves in Church activities. This is consonant with the view that ‘work for the Lord’ is an alternative route to fame for those who otherwise have little access to prestige as an alawata due to their limited knowl-

edge of gardening, management of yams, and inadequate social skills.

It appears that women dominate in Church activism. Often they

are the driving forces behind their family’s church attendance; they

send the children to Sunday School and attempt to persuade their husbands to lead the family to Sunday service. The regular meetings of the women’s and youth fellowships create new ties between individuals

and are structured along different lines than kinship. Junior women who have recently returned to Dobu from working in town achieve status as Church

‘workers’, and adolescent men and women, often

profiting from their high school education, act as moral and social guides in the Youth Fellowship and as Sunday School teachers. From

the perspective of a university graduate in economics, a man in his

early thirties who is a sharp and cynical analyst of the present situa-

tion, the Church profits from the opportunity to gain higher status through activism: ‘This Bible thing is getting to be a big industry nowa-

days. A major industry of the underprivileged I should say’. The impact of the Youth Fellowship on cross-sex relationships is a source of constant complaint among the elders, who perceive it as a

decay of morals that indicates that a new order (bubuna dimdim) is about to take over and change the Dobu way of life (bubuna Dobu). In

fact, by joining young men and women legitimately into self-organised ‘fellowship’ groups, the Church legitimises new levels of mutual 153

Google

Dobu

acquaintanceship that offer space for more personal friendships be-

tween the sexes than were ever possible before.’ But this causes dis-

quiet. The following transcription is from a long interview with a ninety-

two-year-old man, Robert Galiaune,'° of Nemunemu hamlet and his wife, L.: Dobu (recorded version, 9.10.1992)

English (my translation)

L.: Batua dumadumana. Atua tai be

L.: Today [it is] different. As if man and woman walk around together.

waine si tautauya. Be gomagwaine be tubuau si tautauya.

And the young girls and unmarried boys also walk around together.

S.K.: Yuti [Youth’s Fellowship] ena

S.K.: Like at the Youth Fellowship. When they go and have Youth Fellowship meetings - Church service

L. Mmh S.Ka Ena wate si egogona.

L.: [agreeing noise]

L.: Mmb, tuta egogona ta enega. Yuti

L.: Yes, time to meet and that is why.

wate. Eguma si ta be si yutiyuti - tapwalolo...

enaya be tuga si tata be convention manudi, aina tuta gote nadigega be...

S.K.: That is also where they meet.

At Youth Fellowship meetings they just go and say it was for some

convention, and then sometimes

it happens and ...

S.K.: Ta yage, tubuau be

gomagwaine idi bubuna maibo'adi manudi wa nuamwau nai wa

gwauso’ala?

L.: Oh, aene...bobo’ana. Bobo’ana

wawasae ta nigeya si da guinue ai’aila

lowa nadigega.

S.K.: And so, concerning the attitudes

of unmarried men and women, are you disappointed or satisfied?

L.: Well, as if...it is good. It is very good

but they do not act like in times before.

R.: Gete tuga atua a nuamwau wate

R.: Just now it is also as if we felt sad,

L.: Tai nidi atua si panaitedi ga aina tuta bubuna to’umalina yaben si apwe’apwesa.

L.: The men seem to become too

enaya, mana...

154

Google

because... [referring to recent case of unwelcome pregnancy]

familiar and close so that bad conduct has to appear sooner or later.

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods R.: Wate si mai asa solanaya be si bwau sinabwana. Be si lugu besobeso asa ediya. Nigeya lowa nadigega.

R.: And also that they out within the hamlet. other hamlets without attitude. That was not

come and shout And they enter the proper done before."'

The participation of adult, married men in Church activities is less regular and ordered, and I am not aware of the existence of any practising men’s fellowship groups. Some hamlets have choirs that perform during public feasting, such as at mortuary feasting; and while the women practise at fellowship meetings and festivities, men appear to meet in a less formal way. Men often told me that they find the

church service boring, but that they were willing to support it with

more practical work, like assistance in gardening, house-building, and in providing access to resources, such as garden land and building material. Both sexes usually sit apart and act separately when performing in a choir group at feasts, or at the Friday meetings when the councillor’s committee distributes community work chores. It appears, too, that while not extensively active in Church ‘work’ like services, conventions, and workshops, men are not explicitly opposed to its social and spiritual benefits. Most men, however, prefer to spend

their time on subsistence work, at meetings of their peer group, and as caring fathers. The message of (patriarchal) Christianity is translated into a concept of parental (sina be tama or sinatama) care in contem-

porary Dobu.” This is evident at the annual Fathers’ Day celebrations,

when sermons reflect some residual confusion about the Father-Son

relationship in biblical terms, but Dobu reasoning makes allowance

for this seeming contradiction as a son can also be chosen as a ‘substitute’ for his dead father. Men with Western education tend to be churchgoers but do not

attempt to play a significant role in the domain of local Church activism. Men are the professional Church leaders, like ministers and pastors; the majority, however, are typically attracted by more secular spheres

of influence. They involve themselves in the Parents and Citizens’ Com-

mittee that supports the Dobu Community School, or become ‘authorities’, helpers of the elected councillor. Many men are particularly

interested in small-scale entrepreneurship, a strategy available only to those who have initial access to money. Unlike Church ‘work’, seen as beneficial for the community as a whole, entrepreneurs are believed to

be concerned to benefit themselves and their immediate relatives. This 155

Google

Dobu

perspective needs further clarification because it relates to significant issues of new role-modelling and shifts in the concept of the person. The ambiguity of business People run business just like their everyday life. I mean on this island if anybody comes and asks for anything or wants to borrow anything,

they just give it away without realising that their personal belonging

that has been borrowed might be damaged and returned damaged or might not even be returned at all. Just the same way as booking [credit].

Because the people here give priority to in-laws. [Field Notes}

My focus now shifts to the sphere of petty capitalism, to an analysis of the opportunities available for individual business entrepreneurs and

the problems of achieving a successful business. I shall focus on small

trade stores (canteens), and only occasionally refer to small-scale trans-

port businesses, cash-cropping, and the harvesting of sea resources.

The latter enterprises are more uncommon, and even more economi-

cally precarious than trade stores, but are also less well organised and do not display with as much clarity the. significant features of local capital enterprises. Western goods constitute Dobu islanders’ second link to the global economy, transmitted through the institution of trade stores managed by local men. These canteens are set up in small huts within the hamlet, easily recognised by their decorative advertisements for PK chewing gum or Winfield cigarettes and the simple wooden steps that lead up to the counter window."* Another typical feature is a sign, hung up in a desperate and usually fruitless effort to improve business. This sign comes in different versions, often as short as ‘Tua lowaga!’ (No more credit!), or ‘Geya‘abo lowagat’ (No credit given!), but sometimes comprising a list of debtors’ names, the individual

amounts they owe, the total sum of outstanding debts, and an apology. Small-scale entrepreneurship in developing countries faces different kinds of difficulties. For many years, national and provincial administrations have been attempting to improve economic prospects at village level. Their aim is usually to intensify subsistence production and enlarge local industries through cash-cropping, fishery and bakery projects, small trade stores, and transport businesses. To overcome the common problems of insufficient education and a lack of capital, smallscale rural entrepreneurs in Milne Bay Province have been given access to workshops, information services, and credit facilities.'5 Obviously,

156

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods some managerial knowledge has reached Dobu, but in spite of all ef-

forts to overcome the practice of giving credit (in Milne Bay English, ‘booking’), the main reason for business failure is the imbalance be-

tween debts and capital.'* Dobu storekeepers have developed some strategies to control the credit they offer, for example, by measuring the credit limits according to their customers’ income:

So my tambus used to come and ask, I just give, give and they go and they go for good, Now Itry hard. If I said no then it’s no. If yes, yes. I

just calculate their individual limit of credit, not much, if it’s already

up to almost 100 Kina of outstanding debts in total I stop booking new credits until the old payments have come back in. [Field Notes]

My 1993 census on business activities revealed that every one of the five functioning canteens suffered from diminishing capital. Another

eight canteens were out of stock and therefore inoperative. Owners of all eleven functioning dinghies and three boats complained about the social pressure to provide free transport. Hundreds of Kina drip into

the social system through the unpaid debts of those who have to rely on market sales to raise small funds but manage to persuade a storekeeper to give them goods on credit.'” The main problems that the people have around here is that most of them think that they can any time earn money just like fetching water.

So when wantoks, especially wantoks or in-laws come and beg for bookings, they just go ahead and let them. Without knowing that their

wantoks or in-laws are not wage earners. They are village people who hardly earn money and find it very difficult to find money within a

week or so. So the bookings stay for quite a lot of time. That is where this booking problem comes from. Immediate families and their

immediate in-laws. [Field Notes]

A boat-owner explained: My main problem is my father’s side because for my susu I have my

say. But for my father’s side — they just come and ask me, ‘Uncle, can 1

jump on?’ I say: ‘Yeah, jump on’. And then they say: ‘Ooh, I...’

Eventually they will tell me: “We have no money. Can we pay it later?” I say: ‘Oh, yes! If you have the money later then come and give it to me’. But they forget.

Trade stores are treasured on Dobu as providers of much appreciated consumer and luxury goods. Sweetened tea, scones, rice, tobacco, tinned

157

Google

Dobu

fish and bully beef have not only become part of the diet, but are also prestigious items that have been incorporated into feasting. This aspect causes business instability over time, because whenever a hamlet involves itself in any kind of feasting the need to host and feed guests with store-bought goods often drains the stock of the local store without replenishing the capital. When the feast is over, the store is left empty and the bankrupt storekeeper can only hope to ‘try again’ at some later date, when

funds can be raised for a fresh start.'* The

amounts of money that are expended by mortuary feasting staggers the imagination: You have seen feasting. Parties consume more money than any single

money-making venture anybody has thought of. You see, people are

growing yams. But for feasts, suddenly there are 20,000 Kina. In

bwabwale and sagali we also need some store goods like sugar and tice, so when a canteen owner is involved in the sagali or bwabwale and he himself has no money he can just say: I go up and get this number of packets of sugar, this number of sticks of tobacco and use them up. And he does this without trying to cover it up. He just forgets.

[Field Notes]

During a communal feast, a storekeeper cannot practicably avoid providing his relatives with generous support from the shelves of his canteen. It can be argued that the everyday practice of buying on credit should be banned for the sake of economic viability. This has often been suggested to small-scale businessmen from rural Papua New Guinea in workshops organised by various organisations that aim to ‘improve economic development’, such as the ‘Small-scale Business

Development Organisation’ founded in Alotau in 1993 to provide rural areas with business assistance. The limited success of this strategy has proven its incapacity to solve the problem. By analysing the way people on Dobu negotiate the symbolic dimensions of credit and money, it appears that people strategically use arguments based on either logic. While it is relatively easy to accommodate God into the ethical system, the roles of the storekeeper and of ‘rich’ relatives in town appear in stark contrast to ‘poor’ gardeners who feel unprivileged (‘still backwards’) and react with envy and anger. The following discussion shows how the contemporary economic system on Dobu fails to reconcile the demands of local and global exchange ethics, so that storekeeper and customer have to negotiate the legitimacy of each transaction. 158

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods

The situation can easily be imagined. Just after sunset, a child is sent to buy something from the nearby store. ‘Go and give this note to “uncle” (the storekeeper) and get a packet of sugar!’ The note reads:

‘My friend! Please help us and give us credit for a packet of sugar for our (incl.) Granny’s tea. I will soon make my market and pay back.

Thank you’. The waiting child cannot be admonished about the previ-

ous credits and it seems too disrespectful to deny Granny her tea. In practice, most storekeepers give in to far too many of these appeals to their generosity and readiness to ‘help’. The most common promise, ‘Tl do my market and then I’ll pay you back’ is not kept in many cases, and storekeepers eventually find themselves in an impossible situation. From a social perspective, the debts of senior relatives, especially affines and ‘fathers’, cannot readily be claimed for reasons of ‘respect’, though from a business point of view the notion of ‘respect’ should not matter. Indeed, from a strictly economic perspective this attitude can be interpreted as a lack of business commitment. As expressed by a local entrepreneur: The main problem on this island is that people want to run a business but they don’t take it seriously enough. They think that running a business is something simple. They run their businesses and earn money and they think that is all. [Field Notes]

As a ‘good man’, a storekeeper should use his stock for the benefit of the hamlet group, to show his ‘love’ and ‘respect’ for his affines and paternal relatives, and for the affines and paternal relatives of his neighbours. As a businessman, a storekeeper should be concerned with the

survival and growth of his enterprise. The obligation to behave ‘respectfully’ towards affines, paternal kin and senior persons by giving credit and not collecting debts creates difficulties for the assessment of prices and eventually ‘dries up’ the stock. These demands contradict one another: loving storekeepers and well-stocked stores are incompatible in Dobu. As a result, the entrepreneur is torn between conflict-

ing ideals and needs:

Because I’m successful I have to give away a lot, you know, that type of mentality is there. If a man is successful it means that the society expects him to give away plenty. When he doesn’t then he upsets people. He

has no place in society. [Field Notes] A way to deal with the contradiction is sheer bravado, as expressed by 159

Google

Dobu

one storekeeper: ‘I know, they go back and complain and gossip ... but I am the boss, ah?’

To understand the reason why credit continues to be a business problem, it is important to recall some of the economic principles (or kinds of symbolic exchanges) discussed in previous chapters. The concept of ‘work’ as a kind of ‘help’, for example, is reflected in some businessmen’s practice of ‘helping’ their paternal relatives with occasional ‘gifts’, namely by accepting their plea for credit that is not repaid and never mentioned again. Such gifts are intended as tokens of sympathy for the father’s matriline, by which to maintain close links that create options of eventual return, like ‘une or rights of land use: Thave all my rights with my mother. But because I work so hard for my father I have to be given free bagi and mwali and even land. And I can use that land until I die ... Business is business. [Field Notes]

In other cases, small-scale business is intended to support the matrilineal kin, in particular to find money for the education of children, to ‘help’ elderly relatives, and to raise the living standards of all its members. The purpose of this canteen: I just want to run this small business to

earn some money ... for my uncles [sister’s children}, those kids here, for their school fees and all those expenses. [Field Notes]

Entrepreneurs have to secure general consensus from both maternal and paternal kin, because witches and sorcerers from either side are believed able to destroy any business enterprise that they resent. Boat owners, in particular, are anxious to reach full agreement with all concerned, because witches have been known to wreck a boat by placing a coral reef in front of it. The problem lies in the interpretation of the agreement. For the customers, gifts in the form of credit are not the same as ‘helping gifts’, because their names are recorded and they are occasionally reminded to pay back, either by the storekeeper when he refuses to give further credit, or by observers who may gossip about a person when he or she is indebted to the limit at all other trade stores. The storekeeper cannot expect gratitude from his customers and kin for his sacrifice, because in their eyes he is only fulfilling his obligation towards them to share his wealth; he is ‘working’ for them or giving ‘help’. Not only is the entrepreneur’s ‘gift’ not fully appreciated, if he refuses to give further credit he commits a social faux-pas: he ‘shows off’. Sanctions of witches and sorcerers in the form of misfortune, sick160

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods

ness and death are believed to be the consequences of refusal to give credit to a senior person, an affine, maternal or paternal relative. Anger towards a storekeeper immediately results in gossip, an effective way to ‘spoil someone’s name’ that can result in ‘social death’ — which is just one step away from physical death. From a customer’s perspective, a trade store is filled with desirable things that belong to its owner. The customer is usually related to the storekeeper and knows him well (understandably enough on such a small island), Aware that the goods are not needed for immediate consumption, the customer feels entitled to ask for a share. So doing, he or she enacts the socially accepted custom of everyday sharing while acknowledging the storekeeper’s commitment to his business by offering to repay the debt later. Often, however, financial difficulties lead to delay of the payment and a renewed desire for trade goods increase the debt before the previous one is repaid. The contradiction between everyday exchanges and a cash economy is obvious: store goods cannot be hidden to avoid demand sharing. A quick cash return is needed to have enough capital to purchase new stock from the mainland on a regular basis. Storekeepers are aware of the social costs of running their business; they all face situations where

they have to refuse further credit and upset their potential customers by openly doubting their promise to pay ‘quickly’. The refusal to offer credit is perceived by the customer as arrogant, greedy behaviour, despised in Dobu. To the customer, the denial of credit is tantamount to the denial of a share in the ostensible surplus that is piled up on the shelves, a denial that, as a first consequence, deprives the customer of enjoying sweet tea, clean clothes, a smoke, or a light at night. Disappointment about this prospect, combined with the humiliation of being branded as untrustworthy and the thought of the storekeeper feasting at night on rice, canned fish, sweet tea and tobacco makes the customer angry. Depending on his or her personality and self-discipline, the open reaction varies between the extremes of indifference (‘That’s okay, I was only trying’), and aggression (“Now you show off, but I will see you!’). Confrontations of this kind are normal occurrences for storekeepers and leave them with the feeling of being under constant threat: ‘If they want to welabana (bewitch] me, they can welabana me. But still | am okay. That’s why I am showing off, we say, gagasa’. It seems that in this context the term gagasa has 161

Google

Dobu

particular undertones that require a different translation from the Milne Bay English expression ‘show-off’. T have so far described the concept of gagasa as a character trait (‘selfishness’), as an interpretation of exchange attitudes (‘stinginess’ or ‘greediness’), as the inappropriate display of wealth (‘boasting’),

and as an explanation for bodily harm (‘being too egocentric’). The difficulty of accurate translation is evident, as the nuances of meaning appear only in the context of interaction. In relation to storekeepers and other men who are involved in Western (dimdim)

matters like

politics, business, or urban dwelling, the accusation of being gagasa might best be translated as arrogance. This ‘arrogance’ is related to material wealth (‘refusing to share’) as an indicator of social attitude

(‘lack of respect’): ‘When I think about business people it’s true that we have to be greedy to make money’. To be accused of gagasa is not a statement about one’s education, as teachers, pastors, ministers, and ‘drop outs’ from university are not generally suspected of being gagasa. It is rather a statement about a person’s conduct and position in society, an accusation that implies a complaint about a person’s claim to unjustified social superiority. Toddlers and young children, for example, are often jokingly accused of being gagasa when they ‘show-off’ (dance, make funny faces, dress up, or chatter noisily) in order to attract more attention than they would otherwise be given. Some businessmen are judged to be gagasa (selfish) by character, but more usually they become stigmatised in reac-

tion to their ‘arrogant’ business practices. What Dobu customers in trade stores experience as the most humiliating treatment are attitudes of assumed superiority, as when they are denied credit but well know that the storekeeper himself makes free use of his stock. The individual’s attempt to ‘make money’ is denigrated as ‘arrogance’ and the logic of market economy does not mesh well with the principles of Dobu exchange. Tracing back the typical problems of rural entrepreneurs reveals some key misunderstandings, especially obvious in the misconception of ‘credit’. From a Dobu perspective, storekeeping is not regarded as ‘work’ in a social sense, as it lacks the dimension of collectivity and mutuality. Storekeepers seek individual profit ‘just on money basis’, as expressed by Lukas when he outlined his plans to start a tradestore:

For my capital I should be looking at over 500 Kina ... and I should be

162

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods

very strict with this lowaga business and I should avoid ‘feeling sorry’

for wantoks, and avoid giving away goods to traditional activities like sagali, bwabwale. My canteen should be just on money basis. [Field Notes]

To run a store ‘just on money

basis’, however, can easily be inter-

preted as ‘bad conduct’ and creates conflict between customer and entrepreneur. Any sickness or accident that the storekeeper might experience within the vicinity of his hamlet is interpreted as an attempt to punish him for being gagasa. This indicates that capitalist and Dobu exchange patterns are verbalised as different discourses about the appropriate (‘respectful’) behaviour of storekeepers. In contemporary Dobu, entrepreneurs fail to communicate the demands of monetary exchanges to their customers sufficiently well. Depending on the level of school education and involvement in business practice, most store-

keepers and some customers engage in discourses about lowaga that make strategic use of definitions for economic transactions that are drawn from English and Dobu (as by comparing money with betel

nuts, see below). Others claim Dobu ethics to be the sole touchstone of

assessment of a person’s conduct, masking their lack of knowledge of dimdim exchange by questioning its moral legitimacy: ‘I think people should understand that whatever stock is in the canteen is for buying, not for lending or consuming’. While a few people are able to distinguish between ‘buying’, ‘lending’ and ‘consuming’, the average Dobu subsistence farmer mostly uses other terms that are derived from the projection of everyday exchanges, as when appealing to the storekeeper as a ‘friend’ if no closer kinship term is available, and asking for ‘help’ by showing sympathy and ‘respect’. The storekeeper, in contrast, speaks of ‘lending’ as a bad practice that can ruin his business. Credit is a universal concept (Firth 1964: 29) and an established

principle of exchange which, in Dobu, is very useful in its capacity to conceal individual wealth. Pigs used to be obtained on a credit basis, and repaid when social strings were tightened at the advent of a feast. In kula exchange, credit is the driving force of the system, generally called buki (‘bookings’, credit) that should be returned within a few months time. Kula partners, however, do not attempt to meet all their obligations because it would put an end to the exchange relationship. In Thune’s words concerning Duau practices, accounting is a sign of hostility: 163

Google

Dobu

If such an accounting finally takes place, as when a person consistently fails to repay valuables which he or she has received, the trading partners

cease to be bound by or even to acknowledge the usual complex of

rights and obligations which is to be found between friends. [1978: 77]

When baskets of yams are given away at a feast the receiver accepts

them ‘on credit’ (aga), because she has to give an equal return gift (lotau) as a balancing gift (maisa): Kodo Baskets

laben Later

etoi three

a we

a we (excl.)

lotaudi be return them and

ewediya took them

a we

ama aga. as our credit.

emaisidi. finish the debt.

The term aga, generally used to identify gifts that require a balanced counter gift, appears to be the root of the term lowaga, as the prefix Jo- means ‘to make’ and the ‘w’ might have been the result of a decline in the use of the glottal stop.'® This etymology was not obvious to any of my informants, however, who claimed that aga and lowaga were altogether different principles. Some argued that the difference between them is revealed by the terms for the respective return gifts, lotau for aga and maisa for lowaga.” The term maisa is used for ‘price’ as well as in general to refer to a return gift that reciprocates the exchange, and it is a concept that cannot be misunderstood from a Dobu perspective. The possessive pronoun used with maisa indicates the connection between a gift and its repayment: ana maisa means ‘its price’ (for goods), or ‘its return gift’ (for Big Gifts). The amount of credit is not constructed as lowaga ana maisa (‘credit its return’) but as lowaga ana sinabwa (‘credit its size’) suggesting repayment is not perceived as ‘natural’ or inevitable. In non-monetary exchanges, the ‘size’ (sinabwa)

of a gift indicates the appropriate time to repay it. Everyday exchanges are reciprocated quickly and casually; ‘small’ gifts travel faster than Big Gifts. The size of a pig indicates the time that it will take to raise a counter gift, while the size of a kula shell not only indicates its value but also the speed of its circulation. The larger a debt, then, the longer

it takes to be returned. The time for balancing gifts has arrived when a person plans to ‘liquidate’ assets for a grand presentation and pulls all the strings to recover the treasures of Big Gifts and bebai from their ‘hiding places’ only to redistribute everything again. For obvious reasons, this strategy is unsuitable for trade stores. It is reflected, how164

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods

ever, in the lists of debtors that are hung up by desperate storekeepers: ‘No more credit! The following people have not paid their debts..1 am sorry ... the storekeeper’. Debtors do not seem to be unduly bothered by these public announcements and I heard comments like, ‘I tricked him and now I just buy somewhere

else, never mind’. It abets this

ethical laxity that, as everybody knows, the payment of credits does not result in any kind of redistribution, unlike a feasting event that compensates a donor with a share of quality food and betel nuts. Without denying the possibility of a misunderstanding of the nature of Western business by some inhabitants of Dobu, it seems to me that the problem with business enterprises is more closely related to personal conflicts between ‘Western style entrepreneurs’ and their customers. Individuals make strategic use of the arguments that are available, using the rhetorical dichotomy of ‘Western custom’ and ‘Dobu custom’ to clarify their points. With regard to small-scale enterprises, the dichotomy of ‘respect’ and ‘arrogance’ is a crucial figure that stakes the claims between ‘socially apt’ customers and ‘antisocial’ storekeepers. Denigrating storekeepers as ‘arrogant’, customers criticise their power to decide upon customer’s levels of consumption and standard of living. Storekeepers’ attempts to counter-argue in terms of the altruistic purposes of their businesses notoriously fail to convince their customers, and they cannot even expect any ‘social profit’ from open debts.?! In fact, Gregory’s distinction between ‘European-type’ and ‘Kula-type’ economies (1983), while unrealistic in today’s practice (see also Macintyre and Young 1982: 207), seems to persist in local dis-

courses about Dobu entrepreneurs, when customers demand to be ‘re-

spected’ while storekeepers demand to be repaid. These understandings are reflected in the way Dobu people talk about money. Thune, in an article about numbers and counting in Duau, draws a distinction between ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ in regard to the exchange of money and objects: It is no accident that numbers referring to money and other things appear only where there are no permanent bonds linking the participants using them. Within the village, exchange is most important as a means for expressing interpersonal relationships; the actual things themselves are of secondary importance. Outside the village, numbers are necessary and useful because the physical objects themselves are the centre of

interest. [1978: 76]

165

Google

Dobu

From my perspective, the existence of trade stores in the hamlets elimi-

nates the usefulness of a distinction between insiders and outsiders. Often, there is a gap within the residence group between those who

have had Western education and returned home and those who re-

mained on Dobu.” As a matter of ‘respect’ for those who gained local knowledge and provided money for school fees, those who return to Dobu are expected to be additionally humble and generous: in short, to follow the rules of Dobu (bubuna Dobu)

in spite of being familiar

with dimdim lifestyles. With the passing generations, the increasing number of migrant

workers from Dobu increases the cash flow back to the hamlet level.

According to J. Tauwaole, an urban Dobu man, men from matrilineal societies who work in towns tend to maintain closer ties with their lineages than people from patrilineal groups. They do so by remitting more money. These men often support their sisters’ children back in the village by starting a small-scale business or by sending cash at regular intervals, thereby sponsoring their heirs. At the same time they create a justification for keeping most of their urban wealth for their own children, although strictly this is not acceptable according to bubuna Dobu. Some men send their children to their own hamlet in order to participate in sagali feasts and gain land rights in their father’s place through ‘work’. This is especially common practice if the children’s mother is from a patrilineal society. This stands in contrast to urban families of a patrilineal background whose men invest more money in their own children and thus tend to keep it in town. I am not aware of further research on this issue, however. The reason for lowaga is not only based on notions of ‘respect’ and ‘arrogance’. It needs further consideration of the local concept of money to gain an insight into the complexities of modern exchanges. Dobu people used to compare money with yams, betel nuts, or ’une (bagi, mwali, or pigs) when they were explaining to me the difference between money and local wealth. To my initial confusion, contradictory statements were made according to the context of my inquiries. Money can be hidden, distributed, or used for one’s consumption; a demand

for someone’s money can be rejected as well as approved on the basis of arguments that are related to traditional wealth. The comparisons of money with yams and other objects of consumption are made strategically, as a means of legitimising and explaining actual behaviour in 166

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods

the context of sharing or refusing to share. This is also interesting insofar as the value of ’une, which can be roughly expressed in the current pig exchange rate, and is then deduced by estimating the monetary value of the pigs: ‘This bagi equals a pig of this (for example, kneehigh) size; so let’s see, that would be about 400 Kina’. Within everyday discourse at the village level, moral ambiguity about the value of money prevails. On.the one hand, the desire to consume trade store goods, the joy of smoking twist tobacco, eating rice with tinned mackerel, and taking a trip in a speedboat, all conspire to make people feel that money is ‘good’. On the other hand, it is regarded as a foreign kind of wealth, a ‘dimdim valuable’ that is difficult to deal

with. People state that they do not know how to use it and they feel that it works better in the hands of dimdims. Indeed, my ability always to have some money with me was seen as proof of my superior wisdom in this matter, while to me it provided the illusion of security, an idea that people in Dobu do not seem to understand. Whenever someone I knew had money (usually because I had given it to him or her on request), the intention was always to spend some on food and tobacco and save some for later purposes. But the circumstances and attitudes of others never permitted the fulfilment of this strategy. Many reasons made it impossible to save money: an outstanding debt in the store, older children taking some without permission, elderly relatives or visitors asking for sugar, tea, and tobacco and finishing up the supply too quickly. The frustration for someone who has to distribute all of his or her wages on payday can be imagined, and it often leads to a reduced incentive to continue working for money:

When I have to pay 300 bucks for my child’s school fee, as soon as I earn that 300 bucks, that’s it, I pay the fees and I go back [to subsistence

work] and check the weeds in the garden or whatever. [Field Notes]

Unlike yams, which are kept and stored under the supervision of senior women, there are no socially acceptable ways of storing money. If it is put in a bank account it is regarded as ‘hidden’, understandably a sensitive issue that cannot be discussed openly. If money is needed for feasts, school fees, church offerings, or similar events, one can often

hear older people complaining about the difficulty of raising the funds: ‘Money is bad, it makes us waste our time. In the olden days we did not need money and yet we lived’. 167

Google

Dobu

‘Money is like yams’ The comparison of money with yams serves as a self-explanatory way to prevent people from asking for it.2* The concept of shame is used in order to allow for a socially accepted ‘storage’ of money. Fortune stated that in the event of loss of yam seeds nobody would give any seeds to provide new stock (1932: 69). In fact, although today’s subsistence

gardener does not need to suffer hunger following a loss of yams seeds because they can be bought from local markets, gossip still attaches to those families who have to buy yams for seeds or as food. It is shameful to lose the seeds, even more shameful to have an insufficient har-

vest and to be forced to beg fellow hamlet dwellers or exchange partners (in the broadest sense) for yams. It makes no difference whether

the yams are needed for exchange or for immediate consumption. The fact that yams can be exchanged against money raises the question of gendering, because as women are the principal producers of yams, men are the main ‘producers’ of money. The axiom that ‘money is like yams’ can also be read as a statement about the establishment of money as an exchange medium that can replace yams. This perspec-

tive is mirrored in some families that I observed. The husbands worked

for money and showed scant respect for their wives, beating them after beer-drinking parties to celebrate paydays and staying away for long periods without remitting money to the family. Such behaviour points towards a decrease in women’s prestige as a by-product of ‘development’ insofar as their menfolk have taken over the responsibility for feeding the family. A related equation is that of money with food. Money is the ‘food that white people eat’, just as yam is the food on Dobu. This idiom is applied to a trade store that runs out of stock due to the storekeeper’s generosity in giving away the goods: ‘They ate the canteen as if it was their yam house’. It is morally wrong to eat all the yams in one’s yam store, as some of them have to be exchanged, some kept for seeds, and some left for unexpected occurrences, like death.

Similarly, it is understood that an empty store does not replenish itself,

so that external help is needed to restart the business. As one might expect, the argument that money is like having yams would be used only by those who already have money, not by those who are about to ask for it. As I explained in Chapter 2 and Chapter 4, yams are conceptual168

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods

ised as ‘persons’ to be addressed with garden magic.’ From this point of view, a lack of yams might also denote the lack of a capacity to

socialise and communicate, procreate, and compete with others. Money,

like yams, can be obtained through magic and with the help of various spirit beings; it is integrated into the contemporary belief system as a

precious commodity and secret treasure. The most popular method (as

I was told several times by different persons) is to ask the spirit of a person who has just been buried. One has to go naked to the cemetery

on the first night after the burial and wait for the spirit to appear.

First, it is said, little red inhabitants of the ground (tonitonibwa’a) will

appear on the grave. Then a huge snake will emerge from the grave and wrap itself around the person who is waiting in terror and disgust,

without, however, doing any harm. After that, the spirit should rise

from the grave and inquire about the needs of the waiting person. Should a wish then be uttered, be it for a magic potion or monetary wealth, the spirit will say what time to return, usually the next morn-

ing before sunrise. People tell of incidents of the successful use of this

method, claiming that even the late SIL missionary, David Lithgow, had used it to get ‘two bags full of money’. When I asked him, he

laughed and denied it, but the fact that so many people believed it gives evidence of their belief in the efficacy of Christian prayer to control local spirit beings. Of all the people who confided about this way of acquiring money, however, none said they were interested in ‘trying it out’. Fear of the snake and of the witches who are also supposed to visit the grave and eat the corpse, was too great. There was also the

difficulty of keeping the newly acquired wealth entirely secret. ‘If you tell anybody it will disappear again’, I was told. Lithgow could risk performing the experiment because he was a devout Christian and knew enough prayers to protect himself, while his relatively luxurious house

on Dobu (with a kerosene fridge, water tank, pit toilet, gas stove, and

lockers) provided a safe and secret hiding place for any wealth he gained in this manner. Giant snakes are a common theme in Papua New Guinea myths,

symbolising material wealth as well as the transformation from ‘ugly’ to ‘attractive’ by shedding their skin.”6 A modernised myth, presented

to an audience as a ‘true story’, told of a young girl from Molima on

Fergusson Island who went to the garden and was approached by a giant snake. Despite her initial fear she married this snake after it had 169

Google

Dobu

asked for her parents’ consent. Later, the snake shed its skin to reveal a handsome young man who took the girl into his house, where bundles of money were stored. The man divided the money into piles, some of which were given to the girl’s family to ‘live on until they die’, and the rest were kept by the couple who were never seen again.?” In garden magic, supernatural beings are engaged to support human efforts to grow yams. It appears that a supernatural being is related to monetary wealth, too. On top of the ridge of Gulebubu, the

dormant volcano of Dobu Island, some strange stones can be found.”®

It is believed that beneath these stones a white lady with fair hair looks

after a treasure of ‘money, notes and silver, gold, diamonds and every-

thing’. The fact that most white visitors want to walk up the mountain is confirmation of the belief, as ‘many dimdims go up and try to get these valuables, but the spirit lady will not give it to them’. It is hoped that one day she might give it to Dobu people, who are the true owners of this wealth. Until such time, other helpers are sought, for example,

the dwarf-like inhabitants of the bush (tokwatokwa) who are said to

be more generous in handing out wealth. They are rarely seen, but on such occasions one can ask for magic or money. They would not deliver it immediately, but one would find the desired magic potion or cash sooner or later. One of my friends swears that she found a twenty Kina note on the beach the very day after she had encountered a tokwatokwa just behind her house: At first I thought that it was my daughter playing in the bush, but then

the tokwatokwa turned around and I realised that it was not her and

quickly asked for money. You know, I had to pay the school fee. The next day, when I walked down to Buduagula, I stepped on the money. It was covered by sand and I am sure the tokwatokwa had put it there

for me. [Field Notes]

From these examples it follows that money can be classed as a kind of local wealth. This is evident when the statement that ‘money is like yams (bebai)’ is alternatively phrased as: ‘money is like ’une (kula valuables and pigs)’. As Big Gifts, une valuables are used in internal exchanges. Like ’une, money can be used to acquire land rights, to end a mourning period by purchasing the required pigs, to re-establish relationships after a serious conflict (ta’ona), and even to buy oneself into the overseas kula exchange. Within the matrilineage, yams are occa170

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods sionally handed over as ‘help’, especially when large amounts of food have to be cooked for helpers or kula partners. Soliciting for yams is bad for one’s reputation as a gardener and manager of crops; it might lead to the conclusion that one lacks economic virtues. From this perspective, money is a precious resource that has symbolic power as a medium of exchange - like yams, kula valuables, and pigs. Asking for such valuables is shameful as it demonstrates an incapacity to acquire them in appropriate ways, that is, by means of ‘work’, exchange and magic. Comparing money with ‘une and yams also points to the risk involved in its accumulation. As I have said, success in kula, gardening, and business is expected to aggravate sorcerers and witches by causing anger or envy. Business people and those families who return to Dobu after some years of accumulating money in town often have less knowledge in the sphere of magic and feel especially vulnerable. ‘Money is like tobacco and betel nuts’ An entirely different strategy is followed by people who argue that money is like betel nuts and tobacco. This point of view is adopted by those who feel momentarily deprived of their fair share of money. According to this argument, cash is a medium of instant sharing, similar to tobacco and betel nuts. The sharing of these drugs is a demonstrative gesture, as under everyday circumstances they are hidden as well as shared. If they are consumed in public it is regarded as insulting to refuse to share, but it is an open secret that everybody can deny having any tobacco, betel nuts, and ‘mustard’ (piper betle Linn., an essential part of the betel mixture). The hand baskets that contain these objects all have small side pockets called ‘the child of the basket’ (tana natuna),

where such things are concealed. When asked for ‘our’ betel nut, a person can demonstratively open the main pouch of the basket to show its emptiness while sorrowfully exclaiming ‘I am very sorry, but see, I don’t have any either!” The obligation to share tobacco caused much annoyance when I gave sticks of twist away in public, as at a market or during a councillor’s

meeting. In no time it was all finished, cut into small pieces and handed

to those who were sitting nearby. Later the person to whom I had

given the tobacco came to me and asked for another stick, complaining

171

Google

Dobu

that my public gift had deprived him of it. ‘It made me angry but I had to share.’ [Field Notes] Asking for betel nuts, ‘mustard’, or tobacco, is a means of socialising

which does not necessarily imply that the person making the request is actually short of these things. I was always asked for betel nuts by passers-by, and when I said I had none I was often given half myself: ‘Look, I only have one, but you can take half of it to chew!’ Asking for betel nuts and tobacco can also be understood as an informal way of greeting, a seeking of contact. In pre-contact days, the greeting formula was an invitation to exchange: ‘Ooh keiwa. Aemuya siwalowa, matamuya buyo’ (Hello. Your feet shall walk in peace; your eyes shall see your cooked quality food). Today, introduced formulas such as gonagona bobo’ana or gudemon (good morning) are in common use, but equivalent to a friendly, informal ‘good morning!’ between neighbours, passers-by, or friends are the questions ‘eisa aada magi?” (any betel nuts?), or ‘rmwau tautauya?’ (where are you going?).

These examples suggest that the remark ‘money is like betel nuts’ can be rendered: ‘money is a small gift that has to be either hidden or shared on demand’. Asking for it is not shameful if it is done in a serious and intimate way, but it is equally acceptable to lie and deny possession. The comparison of betel nuts and tobacco with money is not entirely valid in this respect, however, because it is also regarded as unseemly or inappropriate to ask openly and loudly for money. Yet if one who is known

to have some rejects demands for money, the

result is a loss of social prestige through gossip, or even sickness, caused by witchcraft or sorcery. The comparison also suggests that the amount of money referred to is comparatively small. Tobacco and betel nuts are available for a few coins (siliba) in local markets, and a gift of only twenty toea would be seen as a morally positive response to a person’s demand for money. Similarly, if a small gift is required, as in the case of compensation (ta’ona) for a dog bite or a

trivial insult, some betel nuts, a stick of

tobacco, or ten to twenty toea are regarded as appropriate. To deny them altogether is evidence of a negative, ‘hard’ character.*° Comparing money with betel nuts and tobacco also offers clear indications about the kinds of people who can be asked for it. In contrast to yams, which can be obtained by request only via matrilineal or 172

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods

paternal kinship links and kula partners, it is socially acceptable to ask almost anybody for betel nuts and tobacco, if the request is made with

an appropriate degree of politeness, depending on the standing of the person making the request. These small tokens of friendship are considered as ‘helping gifts’, because everybody on Dobu knows the unpleasant sensation of craving for a chew or a smoke. For safety reasons (witchcraft and sorcery), strangers and potential enemies are not asked.

Big men and women are expected to share their abundance of betel nuts generously, without request. If one can ask for small amounts of money ‘just as for betel nuts’ it would explain why children are only lightly punished if they help themselves to money for PK from their mother’s basket. It also explains why my ‘sisters’ and ‘aunties’ came to ask me for coins every now and then ‘to go and get our betel nuts’, and why it is impossible to store cash for the following market day. The hiding of betel nuts, tobacco, and money as an attempt to save them for oneself is doomed after only the briefest period of time, not least because there is so little space for secrecy within the household. Development from below? From a Dobu perspective, a practising Christian displays ‘respect’ for God, while a practising storekeeper displays ‘arrogance’ and ‘shows off’. Businessmen have to juggle the demands of a cash economy with the obligation to provide ‘help’ to members of their entire network of relations. As a result, it is only a matter of time before social pressures get the upper hand, leading to yet another business failure. Often, the entrepreneur is socially stigmatised. A common expression refers to someone who does not provide sufficient support (‘help’) to parents and elders: ‘They have built the veranda that he (or she) now sits upon

and looks down onto them — what an arrogant person’. Such persons are the subjects of gossip: Oh, his canteen is already dry. Well, now he can stop eating rice, no more showing off. Before, when his store was full, he thought he was

someone, but now they already put him back to base. Serves him right

for showing off! [Field Notes]

Considering the numerous examples of failed business ventures in the past it is surprising that there are always those willing to ‘try it out’ again. An explanation can be found in the temporarily positive effects 173

Google

Dobu of an initial access to luxury food, increased social contacts, and the

role model of dimdim. The development debate has identified negative ‘social pressure’ as a widespread problem for rural development, an obstacle that some analysts expect to diminish gradually as Western values become more pervasive (Carroll 1988: 118). In an alternative

approach, it has been suggested that ‘traditional institutions’ can be used as vehicles for the development of a market economy. The Trobriand writer and businessman John Kasaipwalowa called the kula a ‘development corporation’ and referred to the ‘wantok system’ as a similar institution to ‘further human happiness’ (1974: 454). As I have shown, ‘traditional’ concepts are part and parcel of rural development anyway, having both positive and negative effects on the functioning of business enterprises. The fact that trade stores are reestablished time and again points to the demand of Dobu islanders for ready supplies of trade goods. When assessing the redistribution of these goods it seems that lowaga is a method of maintaining egalitarian structures by ‘taking from the rich and giving to the poor’. This point was occasionally made by ‘poor’ people (those without direct access to money) who also stated that people who fail to repay credit are not stigmatised: they have ‘tricked’ the storekeeper, and anyway, they needed the money for more important purposes like school fees or the annual church offering. Dobu people usually differentiate between ‘rich’ and ‘poor’ people in the English language when they refer to monetary wealth. This distinction suggests some kind of class division within Dobu society, manifested in the different role models of ‘gardeners’ and those currently adopting and modifying a dimdim lifestyle. Paradise and Cowboy: the ‘mixed person’ After two months of fieldwork, I went to Alotau for a week to watch the celebration of Independence Day. BeforeI left, my ‘mother’ advised

me to do some bulk shopping for groceries and suggested further goods

that were not on my list: ‘Don’t forget black tobacco (the twisted sticks of trade tobacco) and some good rolling papers. In the newsagency you can buy the Sydney Morning Herald, that is best for smoking. As for

the tobacco, make sure you get enough of both types. The women usually smoke Paradise and the men Cowboy. Bring at least one block of each, it’s much cheaper for you that way!’ [Field Notes]

This gender specification of certain tobacco brands could be interpreted 174

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods as an indication of role-modelling. Women smoke Paradise because they associate the word with Christianity (although the name actually

refers to the national bird); men prefer to smoke Cowboy because the

masculine image of a Wild West character suits them better.*! Black tobacco costs about seventy toea per stick, which makes up to ten cigarettes. It is distributed in square-sized pieces at feasts, and is typically hidden with great care as the automatic response of any smoker who catches sight of it is to demand some. The home-grown alterna-

tive is called kasia (‘bush tobacco’), an unfermented canaster that is

sold locally by some men for a fraction of the price of black tobacco. The habit of smoking rolled cigarettes (originally spread by late 19th century traders) is regarded by Dobu people as a part of their ‘civilisation’: the pre-colonial bamboo pipe (baubau) had been given up in the first decades of this century.*? The availability of black tobacco, in this reasoning, is evidence of ‘development’ on Dobu, because it is sold in stores. The next stage is within reach: ready-made cigarettes of the brand Mutrus have become increasingly popular within the last ten years.> Some men have begun to occasionally smoke Winfield and Benson and Hedges filter cigarettes despite their high price and the stigma of ‘showing off and ‘becoming Westernised’. Some women even attempt to give up smoking, because it is not ‘good for women’. The new Dobu person is becoming a social ideal for parents who want their children to adopt what they perceive as a dimdim lifestyle. The richest Dobu businessman, Madati Morea, lives on Sanaroa Is-

land in ‘the middle of nowhere’ in a permanent house complete with generator, electric lighting, and a water pump. During an interview about his career we sat on the concrete under his spacious and wellfurnished house, swatting mosquitoes and sipping sweet tea while the radio played string band music of the famous Henry Kuskus.** Madati explained (in his somewhat idiosyncratic English) why he had chosen a lifestyle that is apt to cause problems with his neighbours and relatives, who regard him as ‘arrogant’ and ‘greedy’: M.: I need to exercise Western life, and also I have a family. I think it’s

better to have a permanent house or dimdim house so that my children won’t have any confusion whether they are living on a station or back in the village. I’m trying to bring some sort of good example to the family and to show that it’s the exercise of the father to practice Western or dimdim ways. But the main aim why I am trying my very best to

175

Google

Dobu adopt a Western style is to enable me and my family to have some

future of Western life. Some easy way of financing our family group for schooling and hospitality. And also, when I look around, I see it’s

better to adopt it. Today everybody is calling for schooling and we are learning, but why don’t we exercise the life, the living? We can speak

good English, we can write good English, we can explain the meaning

of English, but we don’t have it. It’s on our body, it’s nothing. But we

do speak it. So I am thinking, my qualification is very very low. ’'m not

very good. Well, people around here in Esa’ala district call me a businessman; but to myself I say ‘I’m not a businessman’. What I’m trying to do, while I have a life to live on this earth is to manage myself

by half: I eat bebai and I eat rice. And I must have money to pay my

children’s school fees; I must have money to get my lighting, to listen to the radio, to afford all these things. So, a very important part, I have to observe my gardening time, my traditional duties. I must see my relatives, I must be friendly with the people, my brothers, my tambus but I have to strain out some of the unnecessary people. I can’t love them all, I have to separate out the goodies from the baddies... S.K.: Do you think that many people hate you?

M.: I don’t know because I cannot see my own face. Program is a major law of life. Programming makes use of timing. Timing is very

important. There is a time for harvest and a time for planting. But if

you have a program of time for gardening, time for looking for money...

there are plenty of things which you can get money out of. Go down to the salt water and there is a lot of Trochus, a lot of Beche-de-mer or sea

cucumbers and there are shark fins, kaila [pearl shell] and other igoda [shells] are good for marketing. There are a lot of good reefs the people don’t use to look for those fish as their economies. What I see is that the lack of program is a major failure of others because people think

that when they finish the gardening they just sit around and walk around.

They sleep in their houses. When they build a house they think that’s a good house for them. But they don’t also do other extension work. And when they get money they think that’s the only money they’ll get, they spend igand that’s it. But you need everyday to change life. Because you need to eat everyday different sort of kaikai [Tok Pisin: food]. I must have a five-year plan. Why should I let my government come and force me to do it? I don’t like colonial style. Today I must have a tool of my own that I can use to cut the bush and make use from my own land and get the money out of my own land. I get myself down to the sea

and find out what is selling and get them. I sell them to the various

176

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods companies or buyers and I have money. That’s it, simple. Market it! I live in the dimdim ways. |live in paradise. There’s nobody to stop me. True. Because this is the chance. I don’t care about witches. I told them,

‘Anytime you jealous of me but when I see you with my two eyes I’m going to kill you with my guns.’ That’s all.

Madati’s account is evidence enough of some men’s wish to remake their identity according to dimdim values. With energy and dedication, these men create a family set-up alike to rural government stations. They work hard for their money and try to avoid exchange obligations. What Madati calls ‘programming’ involves a profound change in the working pattern for men, who usually have peak times for work and recreation throughout the gardening cycle. His life is indeed very busy. He owns two cargo boats, a trade store (as financial security), and spends much time planting useful and decorative crops in his hamlet. He sees himself as the patriarch of his family, its provider and educator. Although he claims that his dimdim life is like ‘paradise’ and that he has reduced his exchange relationships to a minimum, he does not want to give up Dobu subsistence tasks entirely (‘I eat yams and I eat rice’). There is an undertone of insecurity in his philosophy when he evokes The Book of Ecclesiastes (‘a time to plant ...’), and he shows little confidence in his adopted role of dimdim when talking to one. The English language is ‘only on his body’, he says; it has not truly penetrated his mind. But in returning to his main point, the ‘programming’ of his entrepreneurial activities, he regains his self-confidence by complaining about other men’s lack of motivation. Madati wants to be successful by his own two hands, using his intelligence, opportunities, and self-discipline (‘programming’). He is not interested in government projects and claims to have no problems with witchcraft.

Women’s liberation? If the ‘new man’ is a patriarch, the ‘new woman’ is disempowered by his rules. This change in gender relations is tacitly supported by Church rhetoric concerning God the Father. Similar messages are transmitted by returning families who have lived an urban life and experienced partly internalised Western values of female weakness and subordination as conveyed by television series such as Neighbours. Some Dobu women in towns have learned about Western women’s resistance against patriarchy and perceive themselves as already ‘liberated’. They engage 177

Google

Dobu

in politics and social activities, and influence the current role model of rural women. But on Dobu, I never had discussions about women’s

liberation or feminism, and I did not suspect it to be an issue until I

interviewed Damian Bobole. He had studied in Port Moresby, a degree in economics, and yet speaks in a derogatory fashion women’s attempts to liberate themselves at the village level. In perience, women who claim to be ‘liberated’ are usually unable

earned about his exto ful-

fil their subsistence duties and feed their families. Their main interest,

according to Damian, is to get away from family duties; so they get

their husbands to look after the children and concentrate on their

dimdim clothes rather than on their customary roles. By doing so, however, they lose the high status that was a result of their skills in gardening, managing wealth, communicating between groups, and raising their children. I quote his statements in full, as they reveal a perspective that I was unable to achieve myself.

S.K.: So you think that women’s lib is not very useful here? D.: Women had more value traditionally than now. S.K.: Than men? D.: No, about equal. Men had their value in that they were able to

defend a community by fighting. They were able to travel out of the community to bring in trade goods from outside. The woman had value because she was able to look after her family well, feed all of them, year in year out. If famine came (ara’aa) she was still able to do it. And

she was praised and recognised because of her capacity to be able to perform all that. There were specific roles. No, the modern concept confuses them. I see a lot of them thinking that it’s not their role to look after babies or to feed the family - the man can do that. But then they are taking the men away from their jobs of repairing their houses

or having to build a canoe. Say the woman demands that the man must

come to help her with cooking or washing the baby, the man neglects his job and so the family collapses. You find here, that those women, especially the elderly women who were brought up strictly on traditional lines, that they carry more weight than even the average man. Her opinion is more valuable. She has more leading roles to play in the community than a lot of men. Because society demands that you contribute by way of not only sharing goods, you have to be able to organise the community or contribute meaningfully by giving them ideas. The woman has got to understand tradition inside and out. Because 178

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods otherwise she may misinterpret her husband’s intentions and this can be damaging. S.K.: There is one statement that I heard before from a woman president. She said that: ‘If you go to the mountain areas you see the women still

wearing “grass” skirts. They are so undeveloped, you could cry and cry and cry to see how miserable they live’. What would you say about that?

D: People don’t have the right concept of development. Although a lot

of them have gone to high school, they reckon development is about having nice clothes, having permanent buildings and every year the

provincial member coming around distributing money. I reckon those people up in the mountain are much better off than me. I have a very low opinion of this woman’s council or whatever, women’s lib doesn’t work here. There’s no place for it in this society. Look at all those women who are liberated. Take X for example. She reckons she is a liberated woman, she’s got all the rights and whatever, guaranteed under law of the constitution. Okay, but she cannot run her own family. Because traditionally the man is the head of the family and everywhere Tlook I see that families which are headed by women are very unstable. This is proof that women being leaders doesn’t work. Traditionally women have their own recognition already, they have their roles to

play, specified by tradition. So she has her value there. But if she gets

involved in these Western ideas of being liberal - ha — she’ll fail. All those women who have had that idea implanted in their brains find it hard to settle in villages. Find it hard to feed their family.

The new role models, exemplified by smoking gender-specific tobacco brands (Cowboy and Paradise) take shape in urban contexts but reach into the rural areas, spread by women undermining the former values of female authority by rejecting a role model that has never been of relevance: the Western housewife. Men want to become ‘lone fighters’ who provide only for their immediate family, saving money for school fees in order to enable their children to escape the village world. In this light it is surprising that the exchange of shell valuables in the kula ring still continues. As I will show in the next chapter a multitude of factors contribute to make kula a challenge and an adventure for contemporary Dobu men and women. Notes 1

Ebwaea means ‘giving’, daita refers to ‘without reason’, ‘free’, or groundless,

179

Google

Dobu

2

3

4 5 6

as in ‘deep sea’: bwagabwaga daita. According to Young, the annual offering of shells not only served as auxil-

iary funding but could also be read as a missionary strategy to ‘cream off

native wealth’ in the attempt to gain control over Dobu society (1989: 120).

During fieldwork, I was made aware of every forthcoming ebwaea daita

collection by friends who were worried about their contribution and asked

me for ‘help’.

Buki Tapwaroro (1963: 210). This hymn was written by Salamo Sunday

School teachers (my translation).

See Young 1989 for an earlier analysis along similar lines.

See Thune 1990 for a detailed analysis of Loboda (Normanby Island) church

services. 7

8

9

Buki Tapwaroro, Hold the Fort (1963: 66, translated by W.E. Bromilow),

first verse and chorus only; my translation. Compare with the difficulty of storing anything of value.

The coeducational school system is also blamed for the same reason, more so since Dobu Community School has recently been upgraded for teaching

grade seven and eight students.

10 Robert was the last eyewitness of Bromilow’s presence on Dobu. He died in 1993,

11. See also Smith for nostalgia and a sense of moral inadequacy in the present among Kairiru islanders (1994: 148ff). 12 Note the lack of possessive suffixes. Other than in this context, I never

heard these words in a non-possessive form but always in deictic reference:

sinagu, tamagu.

13 Thune also points out the difficulty of translating the concept of God as ‘the Father’ in a Loboda church service (1990: 108).

14 PK isa brand of chewing gum which was top of the list of children’s preferences when I was on Dobu.

15 See Strathern (1972) for a discussion of this problem. 16 See also Schlesier (1963); Strathern (1972).

17 For reasons of simplicity, I do not make a distinction here between storekeepers and storeowners, because storekeepers are expected to follow

storeowners’ policies. If storekeepers are not honest, however, the

storeowner has to deal with each case very sensitively, especially if he has employed an affine or paternal relative.

18 Christmas, when many relatives who live in urban areas return for a holi-

day, is the perfect time for negotiations about a new load of cargo as a ‘gift

of love’. 19 Daphne Lithgow emphasises the importance of the gradual decline of the 180

Google

Gifts of Cash for God and Goods glottal stop (”) among native speakers of Dobu (pers. comm., August 1992; 1977). Her dictionary has a special section for words beginning with the glottal stop to mark their etymological significance (1984).

20 In the kula, however, aga and maisa are the most elementary forms of exchange, something my informants might have forgotten because I made these enquiries during a mortuary feast, when aga and lotau are the appropriate terms for balanced gift exchange of yams (bebai) and ‘une. 21 See also Mauss (1990: 37); Strathern (1972: 500-1); Bourdieu (1977: 179ff). 22 Since Firth raised the question of compatibility of economic concepts like

‘saving’ (1964), some work has been done in this area (for example, Sexton 1982).

23 ‘When money for school fees is sent to the parents of the child by urbandwelling relatives, the sacrifice needed to use it for this purpose and not to spend it on store goods permits the argument that it is ‘work’ for the child, even though the money was not personally earned by a parent’s labour. 24 Gudeman also compares Dobu yams with capital (1986: 137). 25 See also Fortune (1932: 101, 107). 26 See Young (1983a: Ch. 3, 1987: 224-25); Thune (1980: 396ff). 27 Interestingly, the time when it was said to have happened coincided with a major robbery at the SPAN office at Salamo on Fergusson Island. The rumours about this robbery might have triggered the updating of what was a traditional myth. 28 These stones are close to the topographic survey marker. 29 I never ran out of tobacco because most people did not like my brand (5 Stars) or the small cigarettes I rolled for them on request. I was not impressed by the taste of black stick tobacco (named Paradise and Cowboy) that provided their pleasure. 30 The expression ‘hard’ is also used in the context of kula exchange. 31 The labels of these blocks of tobacco are not commonly seen, however, because the sticks are normally sold singly, wrapped in newspaper. Gender specific advertisements for tobacco are common marketing strategies (com-

pare Marlboro and Slim Filters, for example). See also Foster’s analysis of

advertisement strategies and role-modelling (1995: 165 fig. 6, 172 fig. 9). 32 See Fortune 1932, plate 6 (p. 208) for a photo of a man smoking his baubau. According to Macintyre, by the 1930s the baubau was already ‘an archaic

object’ on Misima (1990: 84).

33 To my surprise I noted that the newspaper used for making Mutrus is

printed in Latin!

34 Henry Kuskus is a popular Tolai musician.

181

Google

Chapter 7 STRATEGIC FRIENDSHIPS AND PRECIOUS MEMORIES: THE Dosu way OF KULA Name of the gift: bagi, mwali (shell valuables)

In this chapter I discuss the Dobu perspective of kula exchange and provide an analysis of personal motivations and individual strategies. I focus particularly on the ‘interplay of strategic control and persuasion’ (Munn

1983: 293), on tactics, risks and tricks - the knowledge and

practices that keep this intricate and complex activity popular amongst Dobu men and women. According to Sahlins’s early classification of exchange kula is built on the ethics of friendship, hospitality and delayed, balanced reciprocity as ‘built-in peace’, to overcome the difficulty of ‘border exchange’, where ‘positive morality fades out or where intergroup hostility is the normal in-group expectation’ (1972: 200-1). For Sahlins, the ‘design’ of kula exchange ‘manifestly immunises an important economic interdependence against a fundamental social cleavage’ (ibid.). Basing his analysis on Fortune’s data, he emphasised ‘cheating’ and ‘trading’ as typical features of kula. Sahlins’s perspective, however, cannot explain the reasons for present-day kula partnerships and exchanges on Dobu, where economic need is an insignificant driving force and hostile tribes a similarly insignificant threat. My data does not support Fortune’s emphasis on cheating and killing by sorcery in relation to kula. Sahlins’s concept of problematic ‘border exchange’ identifies one important source of excitement, anxiety and tension that makes kula appealing in terms of individual experience. As an external exchange network of support, the kula links of Massim people certainly do have occasional economic significance as sources of additional gifts for feasts. From a contemporary Dobu perspective, however, kula is essentially a gamble for bagi (necklace) and mwali (arm shell), the ‘shells that matter’ for local exchanges.

Chapter 4 outlined the major features and characteristics of bagi and muwali. Here, their symbolic value is further explored by reflecting on the process of persuasion and seduction that is needed to acquire them; the physical and emotional challenge of travel on kula expeditions is discussed as a form of ‘work’. New generations of kula traders 182

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula

are drawn into the system through such expeditions, when shared experiences strengthen the ties between ‘mentor and student’ and knowledge is transmitted in line with practice. Structuring the chapter around the narrative of a kula expedition, I reiterate the lived experience and

the excitement that makes kula so engaging. This narrative is fictional insofar as it is constructed from my data of two group expeditions to Duau (Normanby Island); once with Enaiya people to reopen the Kaula area for kula exchange following a death, and once with Edugaura people to reintroduce a widower to the exchange. J also include information received on my kula trips to Bwaiowa, where I went with individual friends by canoe or dinghy without any formal ceremonies, and from Dobu itself, when I observed kula traders from Bwaiowa and Duau attempting to solicit valuables. All these occasions contributed to broaden my understanding and so to shape my ‘account of a kula expedition to Duau’. Table 9 gives an overview of my experiences of kula expeditions. While participating in these trips, I was taught the moral reasoning associated with kula exchange, especially obvious in the use of ‘respect’ and ‘work’ as a legitimation for, and explanation of, exchange activities. My involvement in kula itself was difficult to initiate, as my local ‘mother’ did not approve: ‘What do you want to know about kula? It is very simple, we can tell

you everything. You don’t need to go and risk your life!’ My ‘mothers’

were not impressed by my interest in this classic example of ‘ceremonial gift exchange’. ‘But, lots of books have been written about it and I want to contribute my own...” ‘Ah, if so many books have been written about it already, what more is there to know? You want to study it? I think you just want a spin.

We have to look after you and if you die because of kula we will get into trouble with your government.’ [Field Notes]

To some extent, I had to admit, her point was correct: with all the systematic work that anthropologists have done on kula over the last eighty-odd years, what more is there to say?! My fascination with kula, originating in undergraduate studies, grew to an understanding of its appeal as I relaxed in the gentle peace of its ethic of hospitality, enacted to lull a visiting kula partner into a perfect illusion of friendship. 183

Google

Dobu

I experienced the joy of being served quality food and an abundance of betel when staying with informants and joining them on kula expeditions. I learned while sitting on beaches and verandas, waiting for boats or a partner, chewing betel nuts and taking notes. On Dobu Island, there are six distinctive kula areas (see Table 10).

Table 9: The author’s participation in kula expeditions

Date Destination Event 241027.5.1993 -Yawala to Duau to Duau (Kwanaula) —_ remove bubuli post as a group (45 persons) by MV Kwantas

Result Name of informant Arrived too late Susan, Alfred, for the bubuli; Alexander, however, we Nobela got two bagi (whole group: 44 bagi). One bagi became my kitomwa.

16.6.1993 Dobu 13.9.1993 Bwaiowa (Waluma)

Botanic excursion to study Study of specific kula ula magic spells and their effects on the weather and the partner

Alexander

Yawala to see mwali _(ei’eiya) by dinghy

Kaibado, Daiba

Negotiations for a muali that Kaibado wanted to give me as oboboma - gift

22.9.1993 Yawala to Bwaiowa Bwaiowa (Waluma) _ by sailing canoe

Success in acquiring the Alexander muali Ulilaba (ranked Lageyani

17.10.1993 Bwaiowa (Waluma)

Negotiations for a Daiba, Kaibado muwali, study of specific kula oils and brews

25 to 29.10.1993

Duau (Soisoiya) 15.11.1993

Dobu (Losina) 24 to 31.12. 1993

Yawala to see mwali —_(ei’eiya) by dinghy Yawala to Duau to

bulubulu) after a night of ‘greasing’

Experience of kula

practice, tanaleleya in Kaula

Setepano, Anthony

Yawala to see bagi

A man teaches kula

Lusinda, Aisi,

Visit to Koyagaugau and

—_Bringing gifts as.

Alexander,

(ei’eiya)

tohis firstborn son

Dawson Island

Ode Island with group from Dobu by MV Pesieda and sailing canoe

——_labalaba; specialist's lectures about kula; study of dagula mwali_

22.8.1997

Visit in Bwaiowa as

Group discussion about

Bwaiowa (Budoya)

Kaibado, Tedo,

reintroduce widower

_labalaba

184

Google

gender roles in kula

usta

Lakatani, Mwalubeyai, Wayaboma Nata, Millicent,

—_Lusinda

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula

People from each of these areas go together for yawala (kula exchange), but frequently others join in. The name of the area is often mentioned in conversations on this topic, for example, Edugaula yawalina is ‘the yawala of Edugaula people’. If people from all the areas of Dobu go together, this is called Gulebubu yawalina (Gulebubu being the name of the volcano that dominates the island). An estimated number of 100

to 150 people are involved in kula exchange on Dobu Island, an average of one or two for each matrilineage.” Waiting for the first trip to come up, I visited Alexander Meleodi, my most reliable and reflective informant-friend. As a classificatory

uncle (wa’a, MFZS) of my ‘mother’s’, he could use his relationship to

my advantage. By inviting me they were morally obliged to could not openly suspect him following day, I realised that strategy of ‘respect’:

to join him on the trip in their presence, let me go. As a matter of ‘respect’ they of being unable to ‘look after’ me. The others were using the same rhetorical

My friend and neighbour had to persuade her husband to let her go,

though he did not relish the thought of having to cook his own food and look after two older children (she would take the baby). She argued

that her paternal uncle (‘father’, fama-) was ill and would not live much

longer. She was obliged to find a kula valuable to be prepared for his

death, when she would need it for his funeral gift (talo), and she wanted

to see her partner for the outstanding debt of a medium sized bagi.

‘What if he dies and I don’t have bagi?’ she told her husband. ‘I have to

go as a matter of “respect”, and so you will have to do without me for

a few days. My sisters will do the work.’ She was using the notion of

‘respect’ in a double sense: her obligation towards her paternal relatives

and her husband’s obligation to her in recognition of this fact. [Field

Notes]

When the word spreads that a trip is to be undertaken ‘soon’, many people start considering whether they should join it or not. They think about the implications for those who stay behind as well as their own capacities. If the transport involves a charge, money has to be raised. If fellow hamlet members are seriously ill, participation in a kula trip can be dangerous for them owing to the debilitating effects of the social syndrome called gwasa. However, sickness can also be the reason

for a trip, especially when death is anticipated and no valuable is available to give to the grave-diggers after the burial. Considerations about 185

Google

Dobu

the faithfulness of a spouse, good behaviour of children left behind, and about the impact of loss of manpower for subsistence chores all have to be weighted. In addition, most people are concerned about risks involved in going on the trip. It is also a matter of ‘respect’ that the living maintain ancestral kula ‘paths’ that they have inherited. This moral rule opens up a whole range of arguments in favour of going on a kula trip. Every kula trader tries to find an appropriate heir or substitute within the matrilineage, chosen for his or her responsibility, intelligence and obedience towards elders and knowledge of the rules. The whole matrilineage has an interest in successful kula exchanges because the valuables are needed for internal exchanges within Dobu itself. Only those young men and women who behave well and show that they are keen and capable are chosen to inherit the main ‘path’ and the most precious valuables of their matrilineage. Those who inherited their ‘paths’ in this way have fond memories of previous journeys when they accompanied their deceased relatives on many previous kula trips, spending time together at a muli’s home, helping to carry the gear and listening carefully to the talk and instructions, learning the secrets of attraction magic, and coming to know the partners and valuables. The valuables the deceased

had held, or attempted to acquire in his or her lifetime, are always a

trigger for sadness, as they revive memories.

In November 1993 I had the chance to observe the handing on of one of the most valuable bagi, called Asanaibeubeu, in Mwemweyala hamlet. For decades this bagi had been held by Ruth’s matrilineage as their

kitomwa. Lakatani, who manages the ‘paths’ of his wife, had planned

to part as well with another first-ranked bagi, called Telefoni, but Ruth started wailing for her deceased maternal uncle whose heir she was, crying that she could not part with it. ‘My hands are dirty’, she keened

to the mourning melody (do’ona’ona, literally cry-and-talk), her face

wet with tears. She meant that her hands were still soiled by the recent death, and that the memory of her maternal uncle was too painful to

give away this bagi. [Field Notes]

Alexander explained to me that kula partners have moral obligations to act sympathetically, showing ‘respect’ to one another by attending group activities related to mortuary feasting, such as ‘opening up’ the region after a prohibition to honour the name of a deceased big man 186

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula

so’aliboda tagwala

the women close their yam houses and one lives from the old garden the women manage last year’s yams and use as

little as possible

botana

famine time

mweia

rotten seed yams are removed and new crop

a’asasigana Kibi rises over Gulebubu sesoi mamasalai

kwateya

siyakutu bwabwale

estimated by the women

literally: ‘we sneak to the hamlet’; the first yam

cultivars are harvested in secret

beginning of yam harvest marked by Fishes (?)

time of yam harvest time of plenty

harvest of kwateya yams harvest of siyakutu yams

feasting time, time for exchanges

Gomayawa rises bagubagula

time for fishing and preparing sticks for the new garden, repairing yam houses beginning of gardening season marked by the Pleiades preparing and planting of new yam gardens

Gomayawa disappears

end of gardening season

oalo

damasi ‘ai ana tuta

time to harvest palolo worms ideal time for betrothal

187

zed by Google

Original from

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

Dobu

or woman by symbolically restarting kula exchange. This occasion often provokes an exciting and extremely competitive trip, because during the ban on kula large numbers of valuables accumulate which are suddenly released at the lifting of the ban. Another reason for a trip is to reintroduce a person to kula exchange in order to end a mourning restriction. In this case, some arrangements with an overseas partner

are made in order to provide feasting food for the participants. Another moral obligation is ‘to open the heavy clouds’, referring to a partner’s visit and gift of a kula valuable ‘to make his partner happy again’ and ‘turn his mind’ back to kula matters after a period of mourning.’ Following the yam harvest, the annual feasting period from August to October is regarded as the best time for kula, though much depends on the availability of a work force and resources at home. When new gardens have to be made (from late October to January), every hand is needed and no kula expedition should be undertaken. After the gardens are planted, a period of calm sea and slack work begins (from

February to April), that is also well suited for kula trips by canoe (see Fortune 1932: 223). No particular rules determine the month of de-

parture; it depends on personal considerations of upcoming events, the possible need to get a valuable, a special arrangement with a kula partner or the simple wish to make a trip that motivates a big man to lead one. Diagram 9 shows that only gardening can interrupt kula, so the rising of the Pleiades (gomayawa) which indicates the time to make new gardens, also heralds the end of the kula season.’ This is interesting in connection with the myth of Kasabwaibwaileta, the kula hero who embarked on the Pleiades after being marooned by his envious kinsmen (see below, also Fortune 1932: 219).

A Dobu-centric view of kula Sitting on a fine mat on his veranda in Kwakwamoiya planning the details of the trip, Alexander was about to explain the finer points to his brother-in-law, Aisi, and me. We would, he began, ‘laga’ (‘go up’) to Duau (the north-eastern portion of Normanby Island). His use of this verb opened up a whole field of knowledge for me, as our discourse shifted into the realm of directional verbs. The movements of bagi and mwali are expressed in terms that represent physical height: muwali ‘come up’ from Bwaiowa to Dobu and then ‘go up’ (laga) to

188

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula Diagram 10: Laga and dolo

a“

Bagl ‘come down’ (dolo)

a

Mwall ‘come up’ (laga)

Duau, while bagi ‘come down’ from Duau to Dobu (dolo). These two

verbs, often used with a directional suffix -ma (to here) or -da (to there) (mwali si lagama, bagi si doloma) suggest a local understanding of

kula as a non-circular structure.’ They are perceived as opposites, so that mwali are said to ‘laga’ from Dobu to Duau to Tubetube to Muyuwa, and bagi to ‘dolo’ from Dobu to Bwaiowa to Boyowa to Iwa and Gawa to Muyuwa.’ The movement of bagi is related to the verb ‘dolo’, and the movement of mwali to the verb ‘laga’. Diagram 10 reflects this perception of kula in a Dobu-centric model.

These directional concepts do not mean, however, that kula as a

system is perceived as lineal. The valuables follow their individual ‘paths’ (eda) from one person to the next, ideally going from one kula area to the neighbouring one and so on. In spite of the slight possibility of receiving the same valuable a second time after it has made the whole circuit, people claim that this ‘never happens’. Their model reflects interactive links from the nodal Dobu standpoint, links that decrease

in intensity as one goes ‘up’ or ‘down’ the chain of partners. It divides the Massim into a ‘core’ zone from Boyowa to Tubetube, and a ‘peripheral’ zone (Iwa, Gawa, and Muyuwa).' A social dimension that

is not reflected in the model, however, is related to the notion of totemic clans. In Dobu, I was told, kula partner used to be members of the same clan.’ This practice cannot be followed all around the ‘ring’

because of local differences in totemic birds. From a Dobu perspective,

however, clan solidarity used to be perpetuated by overseas links, 189

Google

Dobu

Diagram 11: The structure of kula

forming same-clan-segments of the kula ring that competed against each other for mwali and bagi of high rank, each clan trying to draw them onto their ‘paths’. This practice must have caused local tensions between clans, but accounts are not available.!° The directional con-

cept of laga and dolo fails to represent the double meaning of ‘path’, as both a structure of relationships and as the actual movements of bagi and mwali (see also Campbell 1983a: 202ff). Alexander enjoyed our discussion about semantic categories like laga and dolo and the simple diagrams (like Diagram 10) that I used to

clarify my questions. Some days later, he paid me a visit and drew the diagram above to explain the structure of kula ‘paths’ to me. He explained that it was the sum of possible links of ku/a partners in the system that gives options for strategic planning of hypothetical ‘paths’ that makes kula so interesting — and risky — for its participants. 190

bigitized

by GOC igle

UNIVERSIT

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula

Certain ‘paths’ have been used in past exchanges and exist as manifestations of the joint efforts of its participants. In the diagram above, one trader in each kula region has been marked ‘x’. These hypothetical

individuals know each other at least by name, are of the same clan (at

least within the range of direct partnerships of Dobu), and form a ‘ring’ of mutual trust: the ideal kula partners (alipoi). In most cases, however, partners are not always dependable and pass valuables in

new directions to suit their own selfish strategies. People with more

than two partners act as ‘intersections’, to use Alexander’s English term, often redirecting the moves of shells on their ‘paths’ into new

exchange-rings. In fact, when Alexander and Alfred made plans to lure the mwali Kibutokunawaisea onto their ‘path’, they drew a similar diagram to explain the current situation, with names of partners

and valuables and arrows to indicate movements, and question marks

to indicate doubtful trustworthiness. The heading read ‘Plan for Kibu’. Annette Weiner suggested that one should ‘visualize the maze of plays and strategies as layers of exchange, which one must constantly build up over time’ (1992: 141). This model combines both structure and realisation of kula ‘paths’. Without a more detailed account of its nature, however, it is difficult to visualise a ‘maze’, other than as consisting of links between partners exchanging gifts of shell valuables. Following valuables as they travel on their individual ‘paths’ through time evokes an image of laminated space."! From a Dobu perspective, there are few grounds for arguing that

kula is a last resort of male dominance (Gell 1992: 166). In the past,

women participated only on Dobu and Tubetube, but today some women participate in almost every region of the kula ring.’ In fact, a few women are famous, like the late Sinekamwe’i of Egadoi who led the last (to date) fleet of canoes to Duau in the 1960s, challenging the participants to bring back more valuables than herself, and winning the competition (doe) in the end. When discussing female participation in kula exchange, some women

remarked that there would be

fewer quarrels and less tension if women exchanged only between themselves.'* In Dobu, kula expeditions are not perceived as ‘male’ or ‘same-

sex’ enterprises, a point that undermines Strathern’s model of kula

(1988: 193ff). In view of the predominantly uxorilocal residence pattern on Dobu (see Chapter 3), her analogy of kula and kinship patterns based on sister-exchange is equally inappropriate: 191

Google

Dobu And what they create in their overseas voyaging is already created at home in the manner in which a subclan residentially divides itself into

its male members who stay and female members who depart: it is a

collectivity of (same-sex) males that forms its community. [1988: 199]

The rules are the same for both women and men in the kula, and most women have male partners. Some women let their husband or brother manage the valuables, because they are weak or resent travelling with small children, just as some men who live in town leave the responsi-

bility for looking after the valuables with their sister or mother. The management of bagi and muwali on behalf of someone else is called ‘une etete.'S | am not aware of any open discrimination against women, who are represented at all levels of kula exchange, although men are

over-represented and their (same-sex) ‘helpers’ in most cases have a

better chance of becoming the principal heir. Female kula traders have a double responsibility because they have to manage food as well as entertain their partners. A successful kula woman is of high status, because she is a perfect host for her exchange partners — a task that cannot be accomplished without a wide range of helpful relatives: girls who prepare and serve the food, do the dishes and the laundry, prepare the beds, fetch water, sweep the hamlet, supervise the children, and do errands; and boys who catch fish, bring

firewood and climb for coconuts and betel. Female kula traders, therefore, have to work harder then their male counterparts who can rely on the support of their wives to provide hospitality. Table 10 opposite lists the names of kula persons who are esa’esa or alawata on Dobu Island and who trade on the highest level of dagula shells.

To Duau, The land of plenty: An account of kula travel A kula trip is called yawala (used either as a noun or a verb), no matter

whether it is made by a group or as a single person. Competitive kula expeditions are more specifically referred to as alau.'” These days Dobu people travel to Duau by diesel-engined vessel or dinghy, but most of the trips to Bwaiowa are still made by canoe. The proximity of Bwaiowa allows for better bonding between kula partners, as visits are more frequent and news spread quickly across the Dobu Passage. When a group goes for alau, its members compete for the valuables before returning home; the size and number of shells are then publicly com192

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula Table 10: Big kula men and women on Dobu Island’*

‘Area on Dobu Edugaula

Mwanomwanona Enaiya Egadoi Wabuna Barabara

Name Setepano Demoti Manukalai Lakatani (for wife, Ruth) Tedo Mini Eli Waiowani Alexander Semele (Waisa) Wasailo Dele Nekwailesi

Male/Female M M M

Hamlet and Clan We'itaa (Bunebune) Gewana alena (Kanagala) Obunebune (Bunebune)

M M F F M M M M M F

Mwemweyala (Kanagala) Gaula (Bunebune) Dewasiya (Kaukau) Namoa (Bunebune) Diluba (Gewala) Kwakwamoiya (Kaukau) Siwabuya (Magisubu) Wabala alena (Bunebune) Udebi (Magisubu) Naikwala (Magisubu)

pared in a ritual called tanaleleya. Such trips are notable for their adventure and sheer fun. A kula trip is announced by its prospective leader, who directs the participants by giving them their ‘rules’ during public speeches. This person, the tosana waga (literally ‘person-look-

after-canoe’), arranges the transport with one of the local boats, sets

the schedule, and provides meals and betel nuts for the participants while aboard, a type of gift called aupatala.'* He will have a specific reason for going, and sufficient prestige and wealth to lead the trip. If a widow or widower is to be reintroduced to kula, she or he has to maintain a mourning attitude, and as there would also be more mourning passengers, the mood on the trip is somewhat subdued to show them ‘respect’. On these trips much time is spent simply waiting. Sitting on the beach, or on a relative’s veranda in the shade, chewing betel nuts, chatting about everyday events, eventually going home to sleep but returning early the next morning for another day of waiting. False rumours such as ‘the boat is coming and it will not wait - we have to leave in a hurry’, and ‘we leave tomorrow morning at daybreak’ keep people idling on the beach for days, until eventually the trip is either cancelled or commenced. Waiting on the beach, chewing betel, and gossiping, represent a typical Dobu situation (not only for kula traders) as boats are usually unpunctual. I observed that people from a matrilineage 193

Google

Dobu

normally stayed together. Adults rarely mixed with the owners of the village while waiting. The children and teenagers, however, who had accompanied their matrilineage elders or fathers to lend a hand, were more at ease with their peers, welcoming the trip as a rare opportunity

to hang out together. The appropriate attitude for senior persons was a dignified silence, interrupted only by the sounds of betel chewing, notably the rattling of a lime stick in a container. As well as the heat of the day and the unspoken dangers of being in strange territory, there might be many mosquitoes and sandflies, no toilet facilities and no way to get food. In spite of all these discomforts, one should display strong character by showing no signs of exhaustion or impatience. To restrain emotions is a rule of conduct that is mastered brilliantly by many people. Indeed, the meaning of the word alamai’ita was explained to me in the context of a kula trip: When you go to Duau, there is no toilet on the small boat. You stay for a long time and want to have a piss and take a proper rest, but you can’t. So with your alamai’ita you simply wait and stay quiet without complaining or pissing anywhere. That’s what alamai’ita means. [Field Notes]

I recall these long days of waiting as productive for ethnography. The general themes of conversation concerned issues of kula exchange, and my enquiries usually initiated group discussions or elaborate explanations. Sitting on a beach, swatting sandflies, chewing, smoking, distributing Cowboy tobacco, talking, writing, and drawing in the sand to clarify a point, transformed our time of waiting into an opportunity for learning. Having most discussions in Dobu language, I noted words for gifts that I had never heard before. Kula gift categories from the Trobriands have been widely discussed in the literature, but their Dobu

counterparts are not as well documented. Aisi, my neighbour and helpful friend, recruited Alexander and Lakatani, both knowledgeable and successful kula men, to answer my questions about kula gift categories in Dobu. They also taught me the strategies of gift-giving, the most important ways of maintaining strong bonds with partners and persuading them to relinquish their shell valuables. A basket of raw yams and other seasonal food can be sent to the partner, when there is the likelihood of a safe delivery. This gift is called eyabala (‘looking across’, ‘passing on’) and symbolically begs 194

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula for a valuable. The recipient should give a bagi or muwali to the deliverer who has to pass it on to the sender of eyabala. At some later opportu-

nity, a matching valuable has to be returned, but the value of the bas-

ket of food remains unbalanced. It is meant to ‘make the partner happy’

and willing to part with a valuable. A gift of eyabala is most appropriate for mwali and bagi of medium to low value. If a very precious valuable (bulubulu or dagula) enters the sphere of Dobu kula, emotions run high and everybody tries their best to win it. Gift-giving is a powerful tool towards achieving this goal, although it is essential to understand clearly the meanings and values of the respective gifts. A person who holds a precious valuable is courted by many wouldbe partners as well as those from his established exchange ‘paths’. He or she receives different gifts from people to ask for the valuable. One kind of gift is po’ala (‘betrothal’), common throughout the kula ring.'? It consists of baskets of yams, banana bunches and seasonal food, betel nuts, tobacco, even pigs or money, and is meant to solicit the valu-

able. This gift is not to be returned, but when its size reaches a certain point, the holder of the valuable is expected to relent: ‘You po’ala too much, today I give you the valuable’. The gift itself is not returned but to a Dobu person’s understanding it is sufficiently well reciprocated by the honour of being chosen to be the next holder of the valuable. Po’ala can also be used to persuade a partner to relinquish a valuable sooner than planned. It is a polite, legitimate way of putting pressure on a partner through the display of generosity, friendship and wealth. It does not convey any rights, however, and in the case of successful po’ala the valuable it was used to solicit still has to be returned by an equivalent shell valuable, no matter how large the po’ala gift had been. As Alfred explained: 7° People think nowadays that po’ala is like buying the valuable, but this is wrong. You only try to persuade your partner. We have many court

cases because of this misunderstanding. [Field Notes]

The gift called masula is a different matter. In spite of its meaning

(‘vegetable food’) it does not consist of food at all but of a small bagi

or mwali. Masula is given to someone who holds a special valuable to encourage trust and elicit a promise to pass the valuable to the giver when the time has come. In this regard, the intention is similar to po’ala,

but as masula has to be balanced with an equivalent shell after some 195

Google

Dobu

time (masula ana maisa), the recipient only temporarily benefits by holding a larger number of shell valuables, thereby increasing his kula in quantity and making him appear ‘wealthy’ and perhaps more reli-

able. The name masula refers to ‘food for the valuable’. Instead of being ‘betrothed’ (po’ala), the valuable is ‘fed’.

A small bagi or mwali can also be given as logita (literally: ‘to spear’, see also Digim’Rina 1995: 166ff), but if this gift is accepted it means that a serious transaction has been initiated, aimed at securing a very precious valuable.*' Logita ‘spears’ the desired valuable, making it quite unlikely that it will be given to a competitor. Some time later, it has to be returned in a balanced way (logita ana maisa). A penultimate round

of exchange will be undertaken before the ‘big one’. The name of this second gift is unua’ila (‘hit it again’), which refers to the previous gift of logita as the first ‘hit’. This time, the ‘hit’ is stronger because a more precious bagi or mwali is handed over. It also has to be returned later with an equivalent valuable (maisa). Logita and unua’ila are means of

Diagram 12: Common gift categories x

Bwaiowa (dolo)

DOBU

Duau (laga)

Sven

small mwali (aga)

small mwali (aga)

small bagi (maisa)

small bagi (maisa)

food and goods (po'ala) medium mwali (logita)

coed nvwal (Gia)

food and go ds goods (po(po ala ais)

medium bagi (maisa)

medium mwali (unua ila)

ses Lad ake

medium bagi (maisa for logita)

medium bagi (maisa for unua’ila) large bagi (aga)

medium mwali (maisa)

medium

mwali (maisa)

food and goods (po’ala) Time

196

Digitized by GO

igle

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula

increasing the mutual trust between partners, stimulating their interaction and preparing the ground for the exchange of the precious valuable. The terms and procedures are confusing — and often confused in their practice, an indication of the complexity of kula that can appear even greater when described on paper. Diagram 12 attempts to

clarify the gift categories used for strategic exchanges by the average

kula trader who operates without much hope of ever gaining a valuable of the highest category. In addition to these gift categories, a further level of exchange comprises the most precious shells, dagula and bulubulu bagi and mwali.

These exchanges, called ‘atupa and kwabukwabula, are performed and

fully understood by only a small number of people who have access to the most precious valuables as their kitomwa (personal property, see

Chapter 4).22 When someone takes the risk and ‘throws’ (pela) such a

valuable as aga (opening gift), the counter-gift is called ‘atupa. It consists of a matching bulubulu or dagula valuable that has been exchanged against the initial kitomwa and follows its ‘path’ in the reverse direction as its ‘marriage partner’. This gift, however, has to travel further

on its designated ‘path’, to replace another partner’s kitomwa. When this second kitomwa eventually arrives in the hands of the initiator of the exchanges, it is the final gift in the often more than life-long series of transactions required to realise the strategy. To receive this gift is the most prestigious event in any kula trader’s life, a dream that for most never comes true. It is called kwabukwabula, a term that could

not be explained by Dobu informants (though kwabula means widow). The exchange of high-ranking valuables can be the most exciting (or devastating) experience in a person’s life, and the expression ‘people die because of bagi and mwali’ (tomota si mwamwasa bagi be mwali manudi) is a direct reference to this exalted level of exchange. The following diagram illustrates such a successful exchange sequence. In the context of kula, gifts of different qualities are exchanged,

either symbolically ‘begging’ for relationships or particular valuables, or responding to such pleas with confirmation. The names of these gifts indicate their purpose as well as the modalities of the appropriate return gift. A prime requirement of kula traders is therefore a solid knowledge based on first-hand experience. The characteristics, values and histories that give high value to individual bagi and muwali also have to be fully understood and the information kept up-to-date. This 197

Google

Dobu

Diagram 13: Exchange of the specialists Dolo

+

Laga

DOBU

cs

*» Space

DAGULA BAGI

(aga) A) (kitomwa)

[ »Marriage*

DAGULA MWALI 1 (atupa)

Sent off on its path to replace

DAGULA MWALI 2

DAGULA MWALI 2

_finally arrives

(kitomwa)

(kwabukwabula) (kitomwa)

Time

is of particular importance when two or three second-class bagi or mwali are exchanged against one first-class (dagula) mwali or bagi. For example, two muwali of the size of the bulubulu Ulilaba are equiva-

lent to one dagula bagi like Telefoni.” In addition to this dimension of knowledge, which is virtually in the public domain and easy to obtain by regular kula participation, another dimension is needed for success: the secret realm of magical practices. The secrets of kula magic

Friendship, trust, and mutual understanding are not normally expected among relative strangers in the Dobu area and most people believe they need some reinforcing magic to display these feelings in a convincing way.** Some kula magic is aimed at making its owner look 198

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula bobo’ana, that is, beautiful, clever, strong, healthy, ‘shining’, trust-

worthy, loveable, and so forth, by changing the perception of the partner rather than the appearance of the user. The spells are secret and it is a sign of true love and friendship, trust and gratitude, if a formula is passed on. Its potency varies and while the strongest magic would be used only for kula, others can be used for less important purposes as well, such as fishing, sexual relationships, and even election campaigns (as I was told by a former member of the PNG parliament who used it successfully for campaigning). There are many different methods in use and most people claim to have their personal spell or magical compound, usually either a herbal mixture or an oil 25 The mind-seducing qualities of this so-called ‘love magic’ have been discussed in Chapter 5. This magic can also be used to increase the beauty of a valuable itself, so that the partner accepts it as the equivalent of a previously given valuable even if it would otherwise be considered too small for the exchange. A woman, usually the spouse of the host, has to perform this magic. There are several methods, but I was told only one recipe: the leaves of a certain plant are cooked in a clay pot and the bagi or mwuali is hung inside the brew. This magic can also be used to attract persons by hanging one’s clothes inside the pot (my friend had practised it several times, with success). Participants in a kula expedition pay special attention to the weather conditions, observe the waves and comment on the winds. They un-

derstand weather to be subject to various influences, such as the sun, moon, and stars, to the activities of supernatural beings, and to human

manipulations. The last are of significance for kula expeditions, as spells and secret practices are believed to have an impact on the weather.”6 While at sea, the winds are called, or whistled for; clouds can be sent away or lured closer. I was given incantations for the bolimana (south-easterly) wind by different men, and another one to ‘cut the black clouds’ with an ebony lime spatula. Nobody could confirm Fortune’s statement that wind and rain magic are ‘exclusively woman’s property’ (1932: 213). Before departure, magic spells for good weather during the trip are spoken into parts of the canoe, especially the splashboard. Sightings of black clouds in the direction of the destination can be read as a portent of powerful kula magic; it causes the clouds to accumulate to alert the partner about the coming fleet. However, when this 199

Google

Dobu

magic is used, the weather usually turns bad. Rain and heavy winds make the trip unpleasant, but the partner will look up into the sky and

say:

‘Look

at these

black

clouds

(’aniana).

Who

made

this

mwakimwakiki (bad weather caused by kula magic)?’ When the magician arrives at the beach chewing the magical root with betel nut, his

partner, like all the others who come to welcome the visitors, will im-

mediately know who caused the bad weather.”’ He will rush towards him, thinking: ‘Oh, this is the beautiful, strong man who

made the

mwakimwakiki, 1 will give him all my valuables because he will certainly not cheat me’. In this context, the weather is observed with more than one interest in mind. If it is calm and benign, it might be an indi-

cation that one’s kula magic did not work well; wind, clouds, and rain,

on the other hand, can be interpreted as indicators of personal power, substantiated in kula magic. Fortune complained about the short-sightedness of his Tewara kula companions because they did not launch the trip on a day with fair winds, but procrastinated until it was too calm to sail and they conse-

quently had to paddle all the way. His explanation is that of a ‘ritual custom’: After the toni-waga and his wife collect the charmed root at midday, those going on the expedition descend to the beach and sit solemnly beside the canoes on the beach all afternoon. A fair wind was blowing on this occasion; but according to ritual custom it had to be ignored,

despite the risk of a calm next day. As dusk fell everyone rose and re-

climbed the hill to the village, remarking that the wind, which still set fair, had been impossible. Next morning early, we put to sea in a calm and did not get to Sanaroa, with a very light breeze, a fifteen-hour voyage that would have been in four or five hours the afternoon before,

when the ritual was observed. [1932: 225]

Discussing Fortune’s accounts during a kula expedition I accompanied, the majority of my informants doubted the possibility of any such ‘ritual halt’ without food distributions. They suggested that the reason behind the delay in the departure of the Tewara fleet, as described by Fortune, was in fact related to kula magic, citing the remark that the weather was ‘impossible’ (1932: 225). They argued that they would have used the term waiwaina (strong) — a strong mwakimwakiki, caused by powerful magic.” 200

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula Leaving Dobu - the trip begins Eventually the boat arrived, causing news to spread quickly, calling the last passengers to return immediately to the shore. I was told that this would be the time to hang out a magically imbued pandanus

streamer (doe) so that it can begin to flutter in the breeze and ‘turn the

partner’s mind soft’. This kind of magic is called doe ana sipwa (literally ‘streamer-its-personal-knot’).”? The leader of the expedition and other important kula traders prepared the way for speeches by distributing betel nuts to all the people who were waiting. In their speeches they reminded the participants many times that they were about to go ‘as one matrilineage’, warning that there must not be any trouble between them: ‘Don’t go as many hamlets, you shall go as one hamlet — we all go as one matrilineage to get bagi for our hamlet Dobu’. In spite of the claim of ‘oneness’, the participants are clearly divided. From one perspective, everyone is going on behalf of his or her own matrilineage, and is interested solely in gaining valuables. In terms of spatial arrangement, a different order emerges: the women, children, and elderly men usually try to get a seat inside the boat, next to the engine, where they sit beside a relative or friend. The best places outside are occupied by the men, depending on the weather, either on the roof or in the stern. The more comfortable spaces on the sheltered side of the boat are usually taken by those senior participants who choose not to sit inside. During the trip, friendly conversations create the atmosphere of a peaceful passage, yet all the passengers are in direct competition with one another. The sub-groupings on board according to gender and age are maintained when ashore, and in fact for as long as the Dobu group is acting as a unit under the leadership of the tosana waga. The meticulous ceremonies to influence the wind described by Fortune were skipped in favour of a prayer to God, the ‘Lord of all winds’, led by a woman from the Women’s Fellowship. Behaviour on kula expeditions may have a different meaning than on ordinary boat trips. For example, when I asked my friend who was staring into the sea what he was thinking, he smiled and said that he was looking out for a fish (wewebuyo) that looks like a snake.*° ‘If you see one it is a very good omen for your kula!’ On one level, there is happiness about having escaped the cares of everyday life, a fact that is manifested in the plentiful supply of betel nuts. Nevertheless, if the 201

Google

Dobu

weather is poor, if anything goes wrong, if someone gets sick or dies, it is likely that these incidents will be interpreted as having been caused by a fellow passenger’s magic, anger, or envy. During my first trip, one of the old men got very sick and was left behind to get better. But he died and had to be buried at his kula partner’s place. Fortunately, his partner was of the same clan so that it was possible for them to perform the proper ceremonies. I did not hear any accusations from other members of the group, but after we returned this death was time and again used as an example of the dangers of

hula. [Field Notes]

After a seven-hour journey we arrived in Kaula hamlet on Normanby Island. No one welcomed us. We simply disembarked, sat on the beach, drank juice from some green coconuts that the young men cut from palms, and started to cook some rice for dinner. The subject of our conversation concerned the days to come, returning time and again to comments about the ethics of ku/a partnership. ‘Being there’ often led to illustrative statements, examples and anecdotes from previous kula trips, focussing on a partner’s wrongdoings and other gossip about kula partners. Starting kula: a greenhorn’s position There are different ways to begin a kula exchange relationship. In the past, a young man had to work for his father or maternal uncle until he was nominated as the heir, either of some valuables, or of a ‘path’. The inheritance includes valuables, debts, and promises.*! In this way, knowledge was transferred before a young man took any action himself, thereby reducing the risk of being cheated. Today, many young people involve themselves, sometimes using their inherited valuables to establish a new relationship. Middle-aged men with Western education also participate nowadays, although they have not always served an ‘apprenticeship’ by helping a mentor. As they usually lack knowledge, they are welcome prey for the adept traders, and I learned of a few cases where false promises forced aspirant kula traders to face facts and ‘return to gardening’ after the loss of valuables. If a greenhorn is cheated, everybody smiles with Schadenfreude: ‘Serves him/her right for showing off for no reason’. Fear of sorcery and gossip often 202

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula keeps a young man quiet after he has lost a valuable, because all parties would be embarrassed by a court case. Being cheated is proof that one’s knowledge of kula magic, oratory skills and strategic planning is lacking — a matter of shame that one would not want to be made public. Fathers often create a new ‘path’ for a favourite son to prevent him from being cheated. They use their network and influence, perhaps establishing a link with a relative of their own favourite partner and encouraging the son to exchange small valuables while themselves engaging in more serious kula matters. Maternal uncles instruct their heirs about the details of their current kula affairs, for with their death the exchange has to be continued. However, as I was told, while kula

magic is transmitted from the mother and father ‘for free’, the mater-

nal uncle expects ‘work’ of his nephew or niece before he gives his kula magic to the principal heir. Inexperienced men and women often attempt to compensate their lack of knowledge of the skills of persuasion by exchanging in rapid sequence, keeping it a secret and not participating in the night-long discussions about strategies. Naturally, there is a greater chance of getting a certain valuable when, due to lack of time, the plan is less

likely to be altered by someone’s sudden death or unexpected move. Secrecy has always been a common feature of the kula, but the ‘new fashion’ does not allow for public display and the ‘throwing’ of a valuable. Neither is the conch shell blown, nor does a public speech announce the exchange. In this ethos, individual trips are preferred to group expeditions. This new way of doing kula is seemingly a response by young people who either have no interest in helping their fathers or uncles in the appropriate - that is, obedient - way, or do not have access to the knowledge that is needed for participating in the old style kula with any chance of survival. The educated young men who return to the village after years of high school and working abroad often feel that participation in kula is an amusing and prestigious activity. But their ‘new way’ is deplored by their more knowledgeable elders. The chances of being cheated are smaller when dealing with the

alipoi of one’s deceased maternal uncle, but at the same time, the diffi-

culty of keeping inherited promises and strategies can lead to faulty

decisions and the subsequent loss of valuables. Ideally, this established partner is a true friend, ‘like a blood brother’, a partner who is inter-

ested in mutual help for the benefit of all members of the particular 203

Google

Dobu

‘path’. A main ‘path’ consists of persons who are the heirs of their respective matrilineal ancestors who used it to transact their favourite valuables. Between alipoi there is a constructive partnership, where everybody tries to increase the level of exchange by directing the best valuables onto it while simultaneously cheating less reliable partners from minor ‘paths’. Valuables are exchanged frequently between alipoi, ‘they flow like water’. The word for ‘trust’ (yaleyale) is frequently used

in this context. In fact, I am tempted to state that it is not used at all

except to describe the appropriate sentiment amongst alipoi. The use of the word alipoi is in many partnerships only a pretence, a rhetorical device, but the concept itself offers some security in a world of exchange rivals. In a broader sense, the word alipoi is used for the principal parmers on both sides, hence the most trustworthy partners that a person has. They are the partners who show ‘respect’ by proper participation in ceremonies related to gatu (blocking of kula after a death), bubuli ana lasa (reopening of ‘paths’), and alau (competitive expedition).

Those men and women who are important persons in the kula ex-

change have access to the ‘heads’ (bulubulu) and ‘feathers’ (dagula) of all valuables. Their bagi and mwali travel on safer ‘paths’, because

they are exchanged only between alipoi. Those ‘paths’ that are large enough for bulubulu and dagula valuables were formed by those individuals, carefully selected, who

hold the best knowledge of how to

acquire a valuable, without being cheated or killed. They are ‘rich’ people (esa’esa and alawata) in terms of valuables, knowledge and oratorical skill. The extreme difficulty of managing an object which is passionately desired by everybody brings partners close together in conspiracy; and by plotting the next few moves together in the game of kula, friendship and true partnership develop out of mutual interests. A wealthy person is usually involved in more than one ‘path’ but invests his loyalty in the inherited main ‘path(s)’. It is a challenge for his secondary partners to lure valuables from the main ‘path’, but the danger of being cheated is greater because the loss of a secondary partner does not cause as much damage as the loss of a partner who approaches the ideal of a ‘real brother’, and who has access to important valuables. Very important persons in kula, like the late Mwalubeyai of Koyagaugau Island, are said to have up to 100 partners on either side, exchanging approximately six precious dagula valuables each year, while most people never get hold of any dagula at all. This is why 204

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula Mwalubeyai, like the late Lepani Watson, was feared and hated by many people, as I was so often told. Today, some rich men in terms of Western wealth are active kula traders. They are attractive to their partners because it is pleasant to visit them. They provide better accommodation and food, have access to kerosene for the lamp, and offer more tobacco to their visitors. On

request, they are also obliged to give small amounts of money or clothing to their partners. Madati told me that he would rather like to stop

his kula, because he feels exploited:

I find it difficult because when I go to them they cook only yam. When they come to me I cook rice. And when they come to us or to me they demand money, kaliko (clothes) and all that. So I think it’s unfair. But

now our children are educated, the older one, Solo, said: ‘Daddy, I

disagree with what you are doing. It’s ruining the business. Waste of money!’ So I have to sit quiet. It’s only my son telling me but I have to

work it out. Then I worked the thing out and it is true. So I said I must

give it up. (Field Notes[

With money, people not only entertain their partners well by feeding them rice and canned fish and by providing more tobacco, but they can also buy their way into kula, even into the highest level. The Australian trader Bill Rudd of Kiriwina is an example. Bill is said to have ‘his house full of muwali’; he is partner in at least one of the ‘paths’ that exchange the most precious dagula valuables.*? He is also said to bring confusion into kula by making bagi finer and smoother with sandpaper, soaking smwali shells in bleach to whiten them again, changing the names of muwali and, by separating the bagi string from the kaila shell, creating two bagi with the same name but of quite different value. He has named one mwali Dividend, and two others after his children, though it is more usual to name a newborn child after the valuable if there is a precious one in the house at the time of its birth. Bill began his kula with valuables that he purchased with cash, and no one I asked complained about this way of entering the system. People did object to his tampering with the valuables, however, though no one seemed inclined to make a fuss about it. The latest rumours reported his returning to Australia in 1997 and presumably retiring from kula. The myth of the kula hero Kasabwaibwaileta expresses the anxiety that I sensed among those waiting for the hamlet dwellers of Kaula (in 205

Google

Dobu

Duau) to come back from working in the garden. Kasabwaibwaileta was an ugly man from Tewara who initiated a competitive kula expedition to Kiriwina.** With his superior magic, he shed his ugly skin and

appeared as a handsome man to his partner. He not only received the desired bagi but also spent the night with his partner’s pretty daughter.

His companions were so angry and jealous that they ‘tricked him’ and deserted him on an uninhabited island.3> He managed to escape, how-

ever, by sailing on the Pleiades and lived for a while in the ‘sky hamlet’

before using his long bagi to climb back down to Tewara.** There he punished his former companions by turning them into birds and wild animals. Among other things, this myth reflects the tensions between the group members as they present themselves as ‘one matrilineage’, while

at the same time planning various strategies to ‘trick’ one another and

collecting the last ingredients for their kula magic: in short, preparing

for a competition that generates heated emotions.

After we had waited for two hours, the people from Kaula came back

from their gardens and there was a formal welcome. Anthony, a kula man from Kaula, informed us that we had come too late to remove the

bubuli post and join the accompanying feast. My friend had already

noticed that there was no such sign on the shore. [Field Notes]

It turned out that kula traders from Bwaiowa had taken away the bubuli about a week before, securing a haul of bagi for themselves and

thereby squeezing out their partners from Dobu.*” We were given good fruits of ‘mustard’ and everybody chewed betel nuts, waiting for the rice and tea to be done. There was very little further interaction with

the inhabitants of Kaula, and after we had finished our meal the leader

of the expedition announced the next stage of the trip.

‘We were to walk to our partners and spend four nights with them,

then walk back, sleep in Kaula, and return home the following morn-

ing. We had to get as many bagi as possible for the ‘fame/name’ of

Dobu. There were no comments or objections, and no expectation of

criticism. The authority of the leader of the expedition is never openly challenged, I was told. People began to walk off in small groups. The villagers along our way did not seem to pay any attention to us, and only the dimdim (myself) was given a solemn ‘yauwedo’ (hello). It took a few hours’ walking to reach the general kula area, but as people

206

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula dispersed so quickly in different directions, I am not sure exactly where they stayed. At least half the people walked to the Kwanaula area; some stayed in hamlets on the way and others climbed further into the mountains.

Visiting the partner I was so glad when we arrived. My feet were sore and shoes wet after crossing river mouths at high tide. We all were hungry and thirsty,

wanting to bathe and rest. Quietly, we approached the house. I felt

unwelcome under the shy gaze of the children who were not used to me

(a dimdim, after all, they reminded me of my whiteness that was no

longer a sensation on Dobu). The wife of our partner came rushing

from the garden, alerted by some children. Her husband, she explained, was paying a visit and expected back in the evening. We sat down in the shade of the veranda, chewed betel, smoked and waited — again. In the kitchen hut, girls started to peel yams. We watched the children chasing a chicken and felt happy about the prospect of eating it. [Field Notes]

The luxurious feeling of be imagined by one who plenty of water to wash dance, friendly faces and factors combine to make

being a guest of one’s kula partner can hardly has not experienced it. A bath in a clear river, clothing, good quality food, betel in abunno need to get up and do any work. All these life good despite the strangeness of the place.

A host has to sit next to his partner, serve sweet tea and scones, main-

tain a pleasant atmosphere and see to all his partner’s possible needs, whether spoken or not, by delegating most tasks to his helpers. Domestic arguments among the hosts are suppressed and a show of harmony and ‘respect’ is maintained to honour the visitor. This intense hospitality is intended to persuade the visiting partner of the wealth, prestige, access to resources, knowledge, technical skills and strength of character (hardworking, disciplined, reliable) of the household. The accomplishment of this show is in fact a powerful means of persuasion, a strategy of hospitality that is acknowledged in a Dobu phrase that I heard frequently: ‘Behind every big man is a wife or sister’. Hospitality is a strategy of persuasion that aims directly at the satisfaction of the guest’s physical needs. This includes optional sex, as in the myth of Kasabwaibwaileta. In some cases, the kula magic of the 207

Google

Dobu

visitor accidentally causes sexual attraction, leading to adulterous sex with the spouse of the partner or with the partner himself (in cross-sex kula partnerships). I was not aware of this possibility, but noticed that I was never included in the ‘hot stage’ of the nocturnal talks (described

below) when I accompanied male friends to their partner’s house. Later, Alexander explained my exclusion with the risk of contagious ‘love magic’. In this light, the terms alawata and esa’esa refer not only to managerial and social skills, needed to control the helpers and perform exemplary hospitality, but also to the knowledge of how to repel kula magic and avoid problems of contagion. The nights were long and full of conversations about valuables, the days relaxed and pleasant. Everybody was keen to get at least one or two bagi, but unfortunately we learned that the people from Bwaiowa had secured about 150. Consequently, it was on this trip that I was told many times how wrong it is to jump over a partner. As only a few bagi were left for us, the competition was even tougher. The lucky ones with a partner who had kept at least one bagi for his Dobu visitor had to fear the others who would try all their skills to persuade the Duau partner to give the bagi to them. The most important activity during a kula trip is the confidential chatting about kula-related news. In these conversations, the partners

test each other’s knowledge, exchange information, and try to come to an agreement about future exchanges. Concerning the last, the host can use his valuables to attract the visiting partner who has only one aim: the partner’s shells, the more the better. Future opportunities will take care of the repayment, which from a visitor’s point of view, is only of secondary importance at this stage. These two positions are carefully concealed during most conversations about kula issues that are not directly linked to their present exchange negotiations. It is crucial to be up-to-date as shell valuables move on ‘paths’ that constantly change in the flexible structure of the ‘kula ring’. Detailed information about the persons and valuables within reach is necessary for developing strategic plans. As people die and their heirs take over it is important to know all the gossip about these new elements in the

chain. Will there be a change of policies, because, say, the heir is not as

smart, fair, or knowledgeable as his or her predecessor? Is the new person keen to continue the exchange with the same chain of partners, or is he more inclined to try out new ‘paths’? Are there any debts 208

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula

(buki) that the heir is likely to pay off (sugu) by releasing an important valuable??* In addition, it is desirable if all the partners in the chain can be trusted, persuaded, or pressured, to follow the ‘rule of the valuable’ (mwali/bagi ana loina), and ensure that it is not passed to an-

other ‘path’ nor given to a secondary (or tertiary) partner directly, thereby leap-frogging some links. The strategy of bypassing unreliable links and progressing faster on a ‘path’ is very common and causes much anxiety and anger. Depending on the context, it is called lopwali (‘to leap over’) or edagesi (‘to go the wrong way’). During these talks that often take days and nights, the partners celebrate their companionship by developing confidential strategies to lure important valuables into their sphere of exchange. Only those who calculate the responses and initiatives of their partners, their partner’s partners (sulimuli) and even the further partners

of mulimuli, have good prospects of securing valuables of higher rank, becoming more attractive to their partners, and eventually gaining great prestige as kula traders. A kula trader who has many debts with other partners can be a risk, as anyone who pays off the debts can secure the valuable. It is also important to be alert to the likely death of a fellow village member of any one of the partners, because the ban on kula

activities in either direction creates a wavelike movement of valuables

when it is lifted. At times, bagi accumulate in one place and are then released in great numbers, while muwali are blocked elsewhere until a final mortuary feast has been held. The blocking and releasing has such a great impact on kula that bans are sometimes omitted by the heirs of the deceased ‘because it spoils kula exchange’. For these reasons, actuarial calculations about people’s life expectancies are among, the considerations when developing exchange strategies. As described in Chapter 4, the most precious valuables have individual names. These are often written with a marking pen on the kaila shell of the bagi or on the muwali itself. For obvious reasons it is important to know the name and rank of a bagi or mwali in order to talk about strategies and it is also crucial to have criteria for their value and how they might form ‘matching couples’. An outsider is lost, however,

when confronted with statements like the following: ‘If Airniugini comes

to Robert, I will offer Botana to Anton and ask him to see Peter for

Airniugini. Like this, we can repay Simon, and finally Airniugini will come to us’.”! It is almost impossible for a visiting anthropologist to 209

Google

Dobu

fully understand these strategies, to judge their effectiveness, and to participate in serious kula discourse. I found myself in the dilemma of either remaining ignorant or disrupting the conversations with simple questions, annoying my friends by asking them things that could not be explained out of context. Finally, I decided to honour their specialist knowledge and not to attempt to learn in a few months what it takes a kula trader a lifetime. The names of important people and valuables helped me to get some sense of it, but a successful kula trader needs to know not only names, but also associated stories, details of

movements, and possibilities for future exchange options. An essential part of ona’une is talk about future exchanges, though the true purpose of a trip is to bring home at least one of the partner’s valuables. This is not easy to accomplish, especially if the host is uncertain about the fidelity and trustworthiness of his visitor. I once had a lesson in ‘greasing’ or ‘sweet-talking’ (woiwoila), when a group of kula traders from Bwaiowa came to Dobu.” While I sat in one of my neighbour’s houses, sharing my stick tobacco

and listening to the ona’une, someone mentioned that I had brought a fine bagi from Duau. A man from Bwaiowa showed some interest and

I proudly went over to my house to show it to him. When he saw it, he started to ‘grease me’ (woiwoila), trying to persuade me to part with the bagi in order to receive a fine mwali from him in the future. I resisted but with difficulty, so sweet were his words, so convincing his arguments, and so funny his little jokes. He managed to create an atmosphere of friendship and solidarity as well as the illusion that I would be ‘doing the right thing’ by parting with the bagi. When I went back to my

house to hide the bagi away once more I began to write down his

arguments, and in doing so I realised that I had been very close to trusting and believing him, not for the logic of his argument but simply

because of his fine rhetoric. [Field Notes]

When I reflected on this experience later, memories returned of my adolescent trips abroad, when I was verbally entreated by Mediterranean men in a very similar style. When I mentioned this parallel, my Dobu friends confirmed that ‘greasing for “une is like greasing for sex’. A soft voice is essential to create the right mood of intimacy, also reflected in the frequent use of the personal pronoun ta (suffix -da, the inclusive form of ‘we’). Beautiful prospects are painted in the event of an agreement being reached: 210

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula Your large I will very

name will be known all over the kula ring; I will give you a very muwali, it is in my house already and when you come to pick it up be a very good host; I am a very good man in kula and I will be a trustworthy partner for you ...’ [Field Notes]

Rational arguments and extravagant compliments were joined: A muali suits your beauty much better, because muwali are female; just imagine the feeling of going back to your university telling your supervisor that you have kula partners yourself; for the muwali that I

will give to you, you will get an even larger bagi in Duau; kula is about exchange, so why don’t you participate properly; if you make me happy

today, I will make you happy later and we will both be happier than before ... [Field Notes]

I felt that the Bwaiowa man was indeed wooing me. Simultaneously,

the terrible consequences of my rejecting his kind offer were politely

mentioned, just to make me aware that he was a

kind of saviour:

Someone might steal the bagi from your house; if you give it to somebody else you might be tricked [butubutu] and lose everything; people might get jealous and attempt to harm your health if you have such a lovely bagi — better give it to me now...’ [Field Notes]

The conversation was relaxed and playful, with jokes and counter arguments tailored to avoid any antagonism or suspicious thoughts. This feeling of confidentiality and solidarity is reinforced by gossiping about other kula traders. A lot of laughing and giggling, offering betel nuts to each other, and friendly smiles made it very different from ordinary conversations between relative strangers.*? Kula partners are supposed to be good friends, and they certainly reinforce this impression with clever rhetoric. I never experienced such a powerful and open display of solidarity anywhere as when kula traders ‘talk about kula’. Ona’une is often pure make-believe, and the better one can pre-

tend to be a friend the more success as a kula trader one will have.

Scoditti and Leach mention the recitation of ‘paths’ as a rhetorical tool

in Kitava (1983: 270f).* In contrast to everyday speech, the rhetoric

of ona’une contains many metaphors. Talk about kula should be ‘soft’ and not ‘careless’, that is, without proper regard for the consequences. Similies such as ‘mwali that are running like water’ for regular exchange are frequently used. Kula shells of high value are called dagula, 211

Google

Dobu

literally the feather used as a head decoration while those of slightly

lower rank are called bulubulu, literally head or skull. Valuables are

said to ‘marry’ (’ai) one another when matching ones are exchanged. Most gift categories have metaphorical names that can be used in per-

suasive contexts, like masula (vegetable food), po’ala (betrothal) and

logita (to spear). Another expression for being a ‘hard partner’ is ‘bhhilding a fence’ around a valuable to keep it ‘tight’. The practice of removing some bagi beads from a necklace is called ‘to eat a bagi’. ‘To make a path’ refers to finding partners for a new exchange route. Those who are active in kula are said to be ‘working kula’, in positive contrast to those who are slow and ‘hard’ who are said to be ‘sleeping kula’. The art of cheating My friends explained that the risk of losing all was greater when exchanging with older people who have more experience in cheating. A beginner, like me, should start exchanging with another beginner and with small valuables only, even if the ‘path’ and the larger valuables were inherited. Initially, I did not understand how people could become ‘bigger’ in kula, if equivalent valuables only were to be exchanged. The answer is simple. While ideally a balanced exchange should be performed, everybody aims at getting larger, and more, valuables by ‘tricking’ the partner.** There are many different ways of ‘tricking’, but a special term is used for cheating in kula exchange: butubutu.** The easiest way is by returning a smaller valuable, thereby profiting from the stupidity (assumed to be induced by magic) and ignorance of the partner who accepts the bad deal. Fortune describes a more elaborate way by which the same muali, say, is simultaneously promised to several partners (1932: 217). The promise persuades all the partners to relinquish a bagi, so that the visitor leaves with, say, four bagi that

he can use to increase his kula activities. Only one of his partners will get the promised muwali; the others will get different ones in the next round, after their bagi have been successfully exchanged for muwali. Those partners who are left temporarily without any valuable are in a disadvantageous position for some time. They lose prestige and credibility, because their partners on the other side of a ‘path’ are held up as well. The delay produces a chain reaction of angry partners if it concerns high-ranking valuables. This is a risky strategy of cheating, 212

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula feasible only for persons with a good knowledge of protective magic. As in Gawa, such anger is memorised similarly to the debt of a valuable (see Munn 1986: 223), objectifying the feeling so that it can persist over a lifetime. If a person loses all his or her valuables due to false promises and misguided expectations, the others will exclaim happily with a good deal of Schadenfreude: ‘Serves you right. Go back into your garden to work!’ An account of a man in this situation is given by Fortune (1932: 234). From his data, he presumed that valuables are

frequently not returned at all:

It appears that credit in the kula is sometimes damaged by worse sharp

practice than the wabuwabu even. This was my impression of it. I only had two kula trips, one north and one south, in which I had experience

of the kula as a participant. But I think that if I had carried on over a long period as a participant I would have discovered much more of this

type of situation that I found in Sanaroa. [1932: 234]

Munn reports the Gawa perspective that Dobu is archetypical of ‘slow and tricky’ kula (1983: 299f; 1986: 76, 159), but none of my inform-

ants believed that Dobu was any worse than other areas. They stated that the ‘speed’ of kula depends on several factors everywhere: the relative value of a shell, the quality of a ‘path’ and the individual trader’s inheritance and knowledge. Senior persons who are ‘rich’ in kula terms are indeed expected to be ‘slow and tricky’ (see Munn 1983: 301ff). They choose their victims according to clever plans that are beyond the latter’s understanding, aiming at large valuables that no beginner would even dream of acquiring. Their greater frequency of exchanges gives them further options. By taking off small portions of a bagi, for instance, they can create new valuables. The fact that this leads to a gradual shortening of established valuables is good reason to keep it secret, not least because the partner is ‘tricked’ by receiving a shorter bagi. One practice that ‘slows down’ kula in Dobu is the delay of repayments to all one’s partners but the two principal ones, thereby piling up valuables and appearing to be rich and trustworthy — as long as gossip does not make one’s partners too suspicious. A beginner is well advised to keep the more precious valuables at home as ‘baits’ and exchange only with smaller ones. This keeps prospective partners interested and faithful for the time being and gives more time for practice 213

Google

Dobu

without the danger of losing the precious valuables. A valuable that is kept for this purpose is called bwax

(call), referring to its ability to

attract partners. In the past, revenge for being cheated could only be taken by means of sorcery, one reason why beginners with no renown as sorcerers were at great risk of never receiving a return (maisa) for

their initial gift (aga). Many stories recall casualties that occurred after such incidents of cheating: He went to see his kula partner, but only to find that the bagi was already gone — given to someone else. Oh, he was so angry! His partner’s wife cooked good food, but he didn’t want to eat. He did not eat in the

evening, nor the next morning, no lunch, nothing. His partner was getting worried; he saw the anger and tried to calm him down. No

way! Eventually he found out who got the bagi that he was expected to

be given, and when he was back in Dobu he made ‘one something’

(sorcery) with the footprints of his enemy and a week later he was

dead. [Field Notes]

Today, groups of knowledgeable men have established ‘kula committees’ all around the ‘ring’. Unfortunately, I never managed to witness them sitting on a court case, but I spoke with some of the Dobu,

Bwaiowa and Duau committee members about cases and the ways in

which they are dealt. The court is held in the village of the offender, with the village councillor and the local authorities as well as an appointed kula mediator hearing it. It aims at reaching a peaceful settlement, but serious offences might be brought to the district court for further investigation and punishment. The kula-authority has to decide upon the seriousness of the problem and possible solutions or punishments. As an expert in the rules of kula he has to explain them to the contending parties. In an interesting article, Munn (1990) describes and analyses conflict over a dagula mwali named Manutasopi

on Gawa Island (see also 1983: 294ff). This case exhibits further stra-

tegic details of kula trade and chain-reactions resulting from cheating, death, and accusations of sorcery and witchcraft. It appears that the practice of cheating that makes kula ‘slow and hard’ is part of the overall concept of ‘tricking’ that I discussed in Chapter 5 in connection with witchcraft and sorcery. Once the host has been persuaded to give away a valuable, the visitor might be invited to stay for another night, so that the ritual of 214

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula ‘throwing’ can be performed in the morning, in front of all people who are interested. The host hangs the valuable on a nail on his veranda, and gets a member of his household to blow the conch shell — once only for a small valuable, several times for a major one. When people hear this sound they habitually assemble, so that usually a small crowd witnesses the launching of a valuable onto its ‘path’. The host stands upright, picks up the valuable and carelessly drags it through the dust towards the visitor, walking forcefully and halting about a meter away to utter a speech. This speech is typically short and harsh, referring only to the agreement that the partners have made to accomplish the exchange. It sounds like a command or a legal judgement:

My partner, today I give you the unindebted muwali Kaba. Its rule goes

as we have agreed upon yesterday. You will give me the bagi Sidatua in exchange. You will pass this mwali on to Peter when he comes to you so that you will get the bagi Sidatua from him later. [Field Notes]

His speech over, the host literally throws the valuable towards the visiting partner, an act that appears quite hostile. Sadness is in his eyes, and if the valuable is of high rank or associated with sad memories, some women might begin to wail for it. If a very high-ranking valuable is thrown, some boys of his matrilineage might raid the visitor’s possessions, take his clothing, decorations, basket, seize his paddles or any other object they fancy. This does not occur very often, as those valuables of the highest rank are given away far more hesitantly than smaller ones. The seizure is called o’ae — ‘to take things to express anger about the loss of the valuable’.*” The visiting partner has presumably tried all his tricks and tested all his skills to persuade and magically seduce the host to part with the valuable. He has been treated like a first-class guest and received small presents if he had asked for them. He has been in a superior position thus far. Suddenly, their roles are reversed and it is the host who now displays power and aggression. The visiting partner has achieved the goal of his trip, yet he does not seem at all happy. Deeply embarrassed he sits and pretends to be looking for his lime container, eventually finds it and chews betel nut as if nothing had happened. He does not look up, not even at the valuable that lies in the dust in front of him. He will not make any move until attention has shifted away from him,

then he will casually pick up the valuable and put it into his basket. I 215

Google

Dobu

never experienced this shame myself, for my joy at a successful acquisition (as of the mwali Ulilaba in Alexander’s name) was too strong to remain hidden behind a doleful face. From the perspective of a Dobu kula trader, however, such patent gratification expresses ‘arrogance’ and lack of self-discipline, faults regarded as typical of dimdim. Postures of embarrassment are more appropriate, such as looking down, pretending to be busily occupied in betel chewing, rolling tobacco, or cutting a piece of wood. Fortune observed such behaviour on his kula trip to Sanaroa Island, misinterpreting it as ‘injured pride’: The evening ended in the best Dobuan manner. The moment the Sanaroa policeman had thrown the sapisapi belt as basi and ceased speaking his

speech of decision, a Tewara man took up the basi gift. My Tewara

friends seated beside me on the Sanaroa man’s house platform rose and

said quietly, but urgently, ‘Come away’. We all stalked away in injured

pride, I somewhat amused but acting my part — no farewell greeting, and no more commerce with the Sanaroa policeman, though someone had the basi gift. [1932: 234]

Home sweet home: gifts, gagasa and gossip Walking back to Kaula on the last day, we met some of the other traders and joined them, staying overnight in an empty trade store and arriving in Kaula early next day. Again the waiting began, though this time there was a different atmosphere. There was much talk about the bad luck (‘there were no bagi left for us’), about incidents with the

partner or while travelling on the rough track. Such stories about common experiences produced some sort of group feeling. Kaula people ‘felt sorry’ about our misfortune and hung up (sana) the few bagi that they had left. As we inspected the bagi, we were treated with more hospitality. Sitting on Anthony’s veranda, chewing his betel nuts while waiting for a cup of tea and a hearty meal, the traders told stories about historic ‘rip-offs’ in kula exchange. ‘It is all so funny as long as you are not the one who is cheated,’ as my friend explained. We all watched when Anthony finally threw three fine bagi to his Dobu partner. The mood was far less tense than on the day of arrival, perhaps because the task had been fulfilled and the competition was over, or

because the group somehow grew together while in a strange place. The time of waiting passed more quickly, as a lot of chatter kept us 216

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula busy. There was still very little contact with the inhabitants of Kaula,

but now we knew that the widow of the deceased was still in mourn-

ing with her female relatives, sitting on the ground and watching events without expression on her face. Although the post was removed, the hamlet was still mourning the death of its Big Man. ‘When the boat finally arrived, we loaded our gear and the gifts of food, stored in simple baskets, and took up our places on board. The forty-five passengers had secured fifty-four bagi between them, not very many, but reasonable given the fact that the first ‘harvest’ had been taken by the people from Bwaiowa. The distribution of bagi among our party was by no means equal: nineteen persons got none at all, thirteen got one, eight got two, and five got three. On the boat there was little talk due to a general weariness, but the mood lifted when we arrived on Dobu at about midnight. Most people were greeted by relatives, who asked for betel nuts and were keen to hear stories while walking home. The leader of the expedition and other senior members of his matrilineage demanded our attention for their final speeches, thanking us for our good manners, and complaining again about the Bwaiowa people who ‘spoiled’ the trip. Everybody was tired and the leader of the expedition decided to omit the public assessment of all our valuables. Instead, a final distribution of tobacco and betel nuts

put the seal on the group enterprise and we all hurried home in small

groups.

I witnessed the public comparison and ranking of bagi (tanaleleya, literally ‘personal basket-same’) on another occasion. All the bagi were hung up on a horizontal pole and the traders walked around it, comparing and discussing certain features, telling stories about individual bagi and deciding on their ranking order.** It is during tanaleleya that a valuable is given its relative rank, when the traders recall the names of a shell’s past ‘spouses’, evaluating its rank on criteria based on its history rather than on actual size. In this way, a shell valuable can

undergo a rapid increase in exchange value if it is of impressive size, shape and decoration. If such a beautiful shell enters the kula it only impresses the beginner and its value will remain low until it is accepted as the counter-gift for a more precious shell. This means that in practice, on the tanaleleya pole at the end of a kula expedition, the value of shells is judged and updated in acknowledgement of their most recent ‘paths’ and ‘spouses’. When all the participants are satisfied with the 217

Google

Dobu

judgement of the valuables, they are returned to the individual traders (tana elelewana) or kept by the leader for a short while and returned

with a small feast.

When returning home the members ofa trip feel happy to be back and proud of bringing valuables, or at least, gifts and stories for their matrilineage and household members. The children might get the ripe fruits, the yams are stored away and the flowers are planted as reminders of the trip. Everybody has had a break from the daily routine, and only those who split up with their kula partner or did not succeed in securing a valuable might feel unhappy. Walking back to my hamlet the following day, everybody asked me

about the trip and whether I had got any bagi. As my friend and I had brought two I was considered to be very lucky. The sore foot that was

worsened by wading back from Enaia to Losina did not evoke any

sympathy. My ‘mother’ phrased it in her usual blunt way: ‘It serves you right, you have got it from your useless walkabout!’ [Field Notes]

Visitors came during the following days and asked for permission to inspect (ei’eiya) the bagi that I had been given. When one praised its beauty or value, I had to return this compliment with a small gift, like betel nuts. ‘Anything will do, betel nuts, even money — ten toea, twenty toea, one Kina, it’s all up to you’. This gift, called tele’uwai, is also expected after a personal compliment (as in past times the expressions awabusayo or sinetaeyo, literally: ‘I eat your shit’ or ‘I eat your mother’s shit’), or the symbolic tying of the wrist with a string (nimasipwa, literally ‘hand-tied’) as a sign of praise. It is a kind of compensation for the visitor in exchange for his compliment, given by the host as a sign of appreciation and shame to balance the additional value that his or her person gains through the conspicuous ‘ownership’ of the bagi or mwali. One also gives to be polite and in order to avoid being accused of ‘arrogance’. New stories and gossip, as well as accounts of the trip have entered the community. A lot of talk was triggered by each trip and in the evenings there were always visitors on the verandas of the participants who enjoyed listening to those who had come back. Almost every participant of the trip brought back some baskets containing food, a farewell gift from the partner: yams, mangoes, pineapples, betel nuts, ‘mustard’, and other garden produce. Some people brought cuttings of flow218

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula ers or shrubs they liked - special varieties that were not available on Dobu. Such gifts are not a form of barter (gimwane), nor are they regarded as exchange with delayed reciprocity. They are termed oboboma (‘out of love’) reflecting the friendship that exists - or is displayed for the sake of kula — between the partners. The host cannot object when asked for something. A beautiful mat, a clay pot, or a carved spatula for betel chewing are more common gifts, but sometimes modern household items, like a torch or even a wrist watch might be given to the partner on request. These gifts are given ‘because we feel sorry for them’. This emotion expressed by ‘feeling sorry’ is not synonymous with the English word ‘sorry’. It is used in contexts of empathy with or without sadness, as when looking at a nice picture or a baby, or when receiving a letter. In the context of kula partnership, it refers mainly to pity. Damian from Bwaiowa explained to me: This Gumawana man comes here and I feel sorry because he had to paddle so many days, trying weather and whatever, so I have to feed him, give him a good rest, plenty of food, and send him on his way. If

he came on his modern dinghy, then that kind of feeling is no longer appropriate. [Field Notes]

I once helped some women from Kaula in Duau who came with a kula party, because I ‘felt sorry’ for them, by lending them my spare mosquito net for the time of their stay. After they had gone, I realised they had taken it with them. This misunderstanding arose because of the time I had spent in Kaula with kula traders from Dobu. They saw the mosquito net as a gift to maintain our friendship, and I am sure that I will be a welcome guest in Kaula if ever I return, finding the hospitality of kula, and maybe even a bagi from a future partner there. Playing the game of fame The Kula is the highest and the most dramatic expression of the native’s conception of value, and if we want to understand all the customs and actions of the Kula in their real bearings we must, first and foremost,

grasp the psychology that lies at its basis. [Malinowski 1922: 176]

Analytically, based on the Dobu perspective, kula exchange is the movement of shells that interconnect generations of traders on different 219

Google

Dobu

islands in a form of laminated space. It is constituted by ethical rules that encourage traders to put all their efforts into acquiring shells and becoming a part of its history. Instead of a ‘ring’ it can be perceived as a nexus of relationships in which shell valuables are passed on in two directions, ‘up’ and ‘down’. Traders go overseas to solicit valuables and compete with their knowledge of persuasion that is linked to notions of inheritance as a reward (or return gift) for ‘work’. If a kula trader is successful, this fact reflects on his personal qualities. The

overarching ethic of ‘respect’ (amayaba) is an overt motivation for kula activities as well as a rhetorical strategy that disarms possible objections against participation in a kula expedition. On

Dobu, the ethic of miabaula

(to stay at home

and do one’s

work) prohibits casual travelling. The outside world is regarded as dangerous and serious health problems are expected to result from

‘useless walkabout’. In addition, a social syndrome called gwasa af-

flicts those who are left behind, keeping them in a state of bodily discomfort for two days. To be left at home doubly disadvantages a person, firstly, by missing all the exciting things that happen on a kula trip, and secondly, by having to do the extra work while feeling lethargic from gwasa. Accordingly, senior relatives, affines, or children often resent kula expeditions of younger, inexperienced persons as a ‘waste of time’. Nevertheless, middle-aged men with Western education often

develop an interest in kula and manage to persuade their elders to let them go. Behind the facade of ‘respect’, however, individual motivations are

more practically related to personal well-being. Going for kula not only allows the participants to escape work and trouble, it also enables them to maintain relationships with people of other villages and clans, to chat about matters that have already been discussed thoroughly within one’s own hamlet and to hear new gossip. It refreshes the mind and the body to leave everyday life behind, as I was told

many times. There is a chance that some conflicts will have resolved

themselves by the time a trip is over, and if it is a successful one there will be small presents for those who were left at home. In short, going for kula is going on a holiday. It still is an adventure to go for kula, especially on the longer trip to Duau, although it has lost the excitement and terror of pre-colonial days of warfare and occasional cannibalism. There are still several kinds 220

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula of dangers, caused by strange and hostile environments and strange and sometimes also hostile people. Sickness can come from ‘strange water’, accidents can happen on the long walk along the coast, by slipping on strange paths, walking on corals that are as sharp as needles. One can suffer cold on the higher slopes or remain hungry for long hours. Insects and dogs can cause problems, just as the toilet facilities in some places are quite different from the discreet off-shore huts on Dobu. Although beds are often prepared in the houses, it may happen that some nights are spent on the beach without cover, as was certainly the norm for previous generations of kula traders. The hamlet of the kula partner is not a place to walk about in without the consent and company of the partner or a member of his family. When we walked past villages in Duau I was surprised to be ignored entirely by the people unless they greeted me as a dimdim. I sensed the hostile atmosphere that unnerves and even scares the Dobu traveller just as much as it does the Duau traveller in Dobu. Only at one’s partner’s place is one supposed to be safe, but when sudden sickness strikes, everyone knows that safety was but an illusion. The threat of death is also present among the fellow traders. Envy at another’s success is common, and to avoid it a bagi or mwali may be hidden from the others.*° This practice is a breach of the rules of group expeditions, as all the valuables that have been won are supposed to be temporarily handed over to the leader of the trip for the display and judgement. If one goes alone on a kula trip it is common practice to keep secret the successful acquisition of an important valuable, but the news tends to spread quickly in spite of all efforts to conceal the transaction. Senior kula traders are known to have elaborate strategies at their avail, a reason for beginners to avoid them and transact only with partners who share the same degree of experience. Although ‘kula

committees’ have been introduced to solve conflicts between individual

traders, sorcery is still suspected to be a major form of revenge by angry or ‘envious’ opponents. This dimension adds to the risk and the sense of competitiveness of kula, as sorcery is transmitted down the

generations as a return gift for personal ‘work’, just like kula valuables, ‘paths’ and the magic of persuasion. Despite these risks, the long walks and the uncomfortable boat trip, it is fun to participate, a pleasurable challenge and sometimes a treat in terms of food and betel. In Duau, the swift rivers are a luxury 221

Google

Dobu

for people from Dobu who do not have clean fresh water. Bathing and eating, chewing and chatting are experiential aspects of kula that have been undervalued by previous researchers. When we stay with our kula partner, we get everything. We eat pork

and fish and the young boys of our host climb for the best ‘mustard?

and betel nuts for our pleasure of chewing. Everything is set for us and we don’t have to move a single finger but are treated as very special guests. That is the good thing about kula. You sleep and eat for free. You dimdims have to pay for everything when you go travelling, but we don’t because of kula. [Field Notes]

Young men who accompany older members of their matrilineage to give them a hand and to learn about kula by listening to the talk told me that they enjoy it for three main reasons: the good food and betel nut supply, the escape from work at home, and the chance of meeting, local girls. Unlike their mentors, they often show little enthusiasm for the serious business of kula. But those young men who are actually committed to getting valuables from their partners are less keen to waste the nights with girls. They are challenged by the difficulty of convincing the partners that they would be doing the right thing by passing the valuables to them. Oratorical skills, a sensitivity to the partner’s desires and needs as well as sheer persistence and powerful

magic are required; and those who succeed and return to Dobu with a bagi or mwali of high rank thereby give proof of their cleverness and the power of their magic. Exchange ‘intoxication’? The native theory is not bad; but it is the love of exchanging valuables,

the love of exchange carried on in an extreme state of exchange

intoxication, and not really a personal love towards a kula partner

dandy such as the kula magic invokes, which is the force at work in

this great and widely ramifying institution. [Fortune 1932: 233]

What the ‘love of exchange’ consists of has been analysed from different perspectives throughout this monograph. Fortune’s observation has some truth, because it is obvious that kula shells are, in a way, ‘loved’ objects. Bagi and muwali are adored for their beauty and preciousness, carefully decorated and hidden in the house, sometimes even lent to a 222

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula

relative in Port Moresby in order better to resist the pressure to pass them on. Although cheating (‘tricking’) is a legitimate way of increasing one’s wealth, actual theft is despised. ‘It is like stealing someone’s baby,’ I was told. Women decorate themselves with bagi when they climb a platform for the ceremonial distribution of yams and pork (dugumalala or sagali) to enhance their beauty and display the wealth of their matrilineage. When I went to Ode Island next to Koyagaugau Island as the guest of

Wayaboma, I found that the large mali Ulilaba had made its way into

his hands already. I had accompanied Alexander to Bwaiowa to receive it from Lageyani and felt some pleasure to see it again. When I mentioned this feeling, I was told that this was a perfectly normal reaction, as

‘kula valuables become like our old friends and we feel good when we

see them again’. To my surprise, I met Ulilaba again in 1997; this time

it was owned by Nata from Bwaiowa, who was our host. [Field Notes}

Such sentimental attachment to shell valuables is an essential part of the system, and as they become invested with personal memories it is sometimes difficult to pass them on. It needs the hard ‘work’ of per-

suasion to lure a ‘hard’ bagi or mwali from its current home, as in the case of the bagi Asanaibeubeu mentioned above, where it took more

then thirty years of hard work to move it. As I have said in Chapter 4, bagi and mwali signify a person’s ‘work’, giving evidence of his or her capacities that were needed to acquire them: that is, intelligence, sensitivity and self-discipline as well as physical strength, willingness to work hard and deny bodily needs. Such individual virtues are rewarded by the acquisition of the secret knowledge of persuasion and seduction, essential for successful kula. I would argue that the experience of kula travel gives that special ‘halo of romance and value’ (Malinowski 1922: 86) to bagi and mwali, a dimension of value that is more sophisticated and ‘spiritual’ than that of ‘down-to-earth valuables’, such as

yams and pigs.

Kula valuables have travelled, have seen different places, have a

history of adventure and connection with different partners. The term for high-ranked muwali, gaiyosakowasi (‘to wade ashore and visit different places’) indicates this association. This symbolism, verging on a mystical projection of travelling in a ‘spacetime’ that is beyond any individual’s reach, is kept alive in conversations about kula amongst participants and through hearsay. It is reflected in metaphors of life 223

Google

Dobu

and death, in Dobu as in Kiriwina, where according to Weiner, ‘kula actions are associated metaphorically with seeking lovers, being married, and giving birth; kula paths die and are reproduced’ (1992: 144).

The force of this symbolism makes bagi and muwali treasured possessions and supremely meaningful gifts in local exchanges. While kula exchange involves legitimate strategies of cheating, mortuary gifts are perceived as fundamentally compensatory in their meaning - expressive of genuine feelings of pity, gratitude and generosity. From a Dobu perspective, ‘work’ for kula represents a certain character: an intelligent, ruthless and potentially dangerous person. As an ideal type, this person is opposed to one who ‘works’ for mortuary feasting. The latter is a more sociable person, equally skilled in managerial matters but relying on a wider, and tighter, network of partners.*! This contrast, of course, only concerns the difference of roles, because ‘rich’ kula persons are usually also very influential in local feasting. If kula trading makes friends, feasting makes relatives, as I shall show in the final chapter. Notes

1

2

3 4

Fora bibliography of kula see Macintyre (1983b).

See J. Leach (1983a: 18). My data are based on the estimates of several

kula traders as well as my own.

Weiner mentions the excitement about this upcoming exchange in 1990

long before it actually took place in November 1993 (1992: 196 n. 53). Death can also cause a local ban (gatu) that is ended when the matrilineal

mourners walk to a village of the same clan and receive kula shells to ‘make them feel able to do kula’. These gifts are called etalai, or e’ebwaeya (literally: to make give). It is done about four days after the death, when the

5

spirit has gone to Mount Bwebweso (see Chapter 8).

According to Fortune, kula expeditions were made between March and

April, ‘while the gardens are yet newly planted before the yam vines are

more than a few inches long’ (1932: 201). On Dobu Island, however, in

6

March and April the yam vines have already reached the centre stick (ebudi) and are at least one meter long.

These meanings of laga and dolo were not mentioned by the missionaries

who did lexical work (Dixon n.d.: 42, 103; Grant 1953: 60, 81; Lithgow

1979: 56, 70). Interestingly, Dixon mentions the verb ‘elagasina as the beginning of pregnancy (n.d.: 49). It literally means ‘to laga into womanhood’. Laga and dolo are extensively used to describe spatial relations,

224

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula

such as in wa’italaga (‘look there in laga direction’),

sau laga (‘put it

there in Jaga direction’), and within Dobu, places are situated laga and

dolo in relation to each other. The two directions were not always consist-

ent with my understanding of ‘up’ and ‘down’, for example, from Buduagula one goes /aga to Enaiya, but dolo to Piesiya (see map) on the same footpath. Malinowski might have been referring to similar Trobriand concepts when translating ‘come’ and ‘go’ in relation to kula (1922: 307).

Following my Dobu informants, I use Tubetube synonymously with the

Bwanabwana region and Boyowa synonymously with the Trobriand Islands (see also J. Leach 1983a: 18).

The relative distance between Dobu and Muyuwa may account for some fundamental differences in local perceptions that greatly complicate an application of Strathern’s concept of the kula as an ‘asymmetric, cross-sex relation’ (1988: 199), Fortune strongly denied this connection (1932: 209).

This may be partly due to a representation of the kula as a ‘peace making ceremony’ (Fortune 1932: 209).

11 See Munn for an analysis of individual ‘paths’ (1990); also Campbell (1983a: 201ff).

12 Lepowsky reviews the contradictory statements of Massim researchers concerning the presence of women in the kula, concluding that at least in contemporary Tubetube and Duau societies women are regular participants (1994: 211). (1950a: 184).

See Macintyre

13 I was told that in Dobu, a

(1987:

210;

1988:

185)

and

Roheim

fleet of kula canoes is called si’alau, not, as

Fortune claims, uwalaku (1932: 210). It might, however, be possible that

both words are compounds, as si alau also means ‘they go for kula’ and ‘u

alau ‘you go for kula’. The latter term might be identical with uwalaku, although I suspect Fortune was given the Trobriand term uvalaku (see Malinowski 1922: 207-11).

14 Although I am not sure of its truth, I cite this comment because it reflects

women’s viewpoint: ‘The men are making it hard for themselves and oth-

ers because they fight too much for mwali and bagi’. 15 It is interesting that Molima people of southern Fergusson Island, who are

new to the kula, call it generally ’une-tete (Chowning 1983: 416).

16 I also received information from kula traders from Bwaiowa (Millicent, Daiba, Lageyani, Lusinda, Nata), Duau (Alfred, Anthony) and Koyagaugau

(Mwalubeyai, Wayaboma). 17 The verb for travelling by boat (adau) is also used when referring to kula trips.

225

Google

Dobu 18 Fortune calls the leader of a fleet ‘canoe owner’, or toni-waga (1932: 216,

224ff). This is incorrect from a Dobu perspective, as the owner of a canoe is not necessarily the leader of a fleet. See also Thune concerning contem-

porary boat charter for kula in Duau (1983: 353).

19 See also Fortune (1932: 218); Munn (1983: 290); Macintyre (1983c: 375) and Damon (1983: 320).

20 Alfred Lazarus of Kwanaula village (Duau), a former informant of Thune’s (‘Mr. Kalo Kwin’), is a member of the kula committee for the Kwanaula area. See Thune for his life history (1980: 548ff).

21 Munn suggests that Gawa pokala is similar to Dobu logita (1983: 291). I agree with Campbell (1983a: 227), Macintyre (1983c: 374ff) and Fortune (1932: 234) that the Trobriand concept of basi is like logita, while pokala

is the cognate of po’ala in Dobu.

22 See Munn for a similar concept called katuwupa (i.e., match) in Gawa (1983: 306, n.13).

23 This practice interferes with a definition of the concept of the ‘kula gift’ as

inalienable in a quantitative sense (Gregory 1983: 104, 115). I agree, how-

ever, with Weiner’s concept of the symbolic inalienability of kula shells (1992).

24 See Fortune: ‘Knowing also Dobuan distrust of, and lack of hospitality to strangers, his fear of strange sorcery, the fact that he is given hospitality

and fed by his host, his kula partner abroad, may well be viewed, as he

25

views it, as one of the strange miracles of magic’ (1932: 215). Fortune mentions such a magic formula (1932: 229), consisting of the leaves of the ‘lamalama tree’, Scaevola sp. (1932: 215n), which, according to my information, is a common creeper that grows on the beach. Its capacities

seem to be extensive, as I was told that the male plant is used as a cure for

kinkin (enlarged scrotum). 26 Fortune’s account of Kasabwaibwaileta’s famous kula voyage refers with-

out further explanation to an activity called tunaseana that is performed at

the beginning of the expedition, when the canoe reaches the deep sea (1932:

216). My informants know this as a protective spell that is muttered over the bailer when used for the first time. The magically treated water is sprayed

all over the canoe. The word, however, should be spelled gunaseyana as it refers to the punting pole (guna) that is used ‘to move out’ (seyana).

27 According to Fortune the bad weather is called kaniana (1932: 231). In 28

Dobu language, ‘aniana means ‘black cloud’.

In this context, see also Fortune’s reference to ‘thunder’ (1932: 224).

29 See also Chapter 6 for the spell called ‘Kasabwaibwaileta ana doe’.

30 Pika identifies wewebuyo as brown moray eel (n.d.: 18-19).

226

Google

Strategic Friendships and Precious Memories: The Dobu Way of Kula 31 See also Munn for the importance of ‘respect’ and ‘work’ for kula inheritance on Gawa

(1983: 109).

32 One of Bill’s ‘paths’ included Maidala (Woodlark) — the heir of Mwalubeyai (Koyagaugau) - Isileli (Duau) - Alfred (Duau) - Alexander (Dobu) - the heir of Lepani Watson (Kiriwina).

33 For example, the mwali Debabuwa has been treated with bleach. The bagi Lepoeyata has been split, so that the old bagi string circulates with a new

kaila shell as Lepoeyata One and the new one, with the old kaila shell, as Lepoeyata Two.

34 According to Dobu informants the myth is from Tewara and Sanaroa Island and is not a real ‘Dobu story’ (’emwasala Dobu). Young has compared six versions of this myth (1983d: 383). I collected this, seventh, version on Sanaroa Island, where it was told to me by Simon Kinokino (see also Kuehling 1998: 345-61).

35 According to Alexander, he was left behind (i kasabwaibwaileta in Tewara language) on Gabuwane Island; see also Fortune (1932: 229).

36 Beatrice from Nemunemu hamlet told me the names of the four stars that

Kasabwaibwaileta refused to climb upon. She counted them (beginning

with the thumb, as their names resemble those of the fingers on the hand):

Weupoi, Kwuiyamousi, Salisaliliyana, Yalayalabubu, Gomayawa (the Pleiades). The prefix nima- (hand) turns these names into words for fingers (see also Roheim 1950a: 199).

37 A bubuli pole should be decorated with a conch shell and a pandanus leaf 38

streamer (doe). See also Damon (1983: 328) for the use of the word ‘buki’(book) as a loan

word for debt in Muyuw.

39 I was told that this happens even among trusting partners (alipoi). In a

recent case, the dagula mwali Tokulasi was passed from Kwaudi (Tubetube)

to Daiba (Bwaiowa), skipping over two partners, John of Tubetube, and

Eli of Dobu. Both were said to be very angry about it.

40 See Weiner for an analysis of Kiriwina practice (1983: 167ff). 41 Airniugini and Botana (Dobu for ‘hunger’) are bagi of bulubulu value. 42 Malinowski translates the equivalent Kiriwina term wawoyla as ‘wooing’

(1922: 353-54). Damon provides the Muyuw equivalent siwayoub

(1983: 320). Strathern refers to wawoyla as a gift category (1983: 78), but this is not the case in Dobu.

43 See Scoditti and J. Leach for similar observations concerning Kitava ‘kula

44

speech’ (1983: 270).

They might, however, have misinterpreted conversations about the concrete exchanges of a particular valuable, consisting basically of the recita-

227

Google

Dobu

tion of names that formed ‘paths’. This is a frequent subject of ona’une. 45 See also Weiner (1984: 170) and Thune (1980: 259).

46

Fortune refers to the practice as wabuwabu (1932: 216ff), but no one whom

I asked about this word could make any sense of it. When I explained the

context, everybody offered the word kabokabo, and so I presume that this is correct. Wabuwabu might be a term from Duau, as Roheim also men-

tions it as a synonym of kabo (1950a: 199).

47 When the bagi Asanaibeubeu was thrown in Dobu (see example above), the young resident men of Mwemweyala hamlet took the kula partner’s

paddles as o’ae. 48 See Macintyre for tanaleleya on Tubetube, there called tanalele (1983c: 378).

49 I generally gave one stick of tobacco per guest. 50 Kasabwaibwaileta, the mythical kula hero, attempted to hide the bagi Goma’alakedakeda in a large sore on his head. 51

See Roheim (1950a: 199) for a similar perspective based on dream analysis

in Duau.

228

Google

Chapter 8

THE Prick oF Love: Mortuary FEASTING AND

PATERNAL DuTy Name of the gift: pegita (‘love-gift’) A line of people approached the boundaries of Losina hamlet, led by a young man with a conch shell and followed by some men who carried

a pig. Next came five women with baskets of yams or clay pots of food and mona pudding on their heads and babies on their hips, and three

other men with banana bunches and lots of betel nuts. Some children as well, carrying more betel nuts and smaller babies. Loud sounds of

crying and wailing, as if they were singing in utter despair. The women

held towels in front of their faces to wipe away the tears, and they blew their noses as they let themselves get carried away with the sounds of sorrow. The conch shell was blown occasionally as the group entered Losina. We stood and watched silently as they put the gifts in front of us. Formal speeches followed, but the wind and the waves took the words away. We gave them four aluminium pots of cooked food, called lo’eyawasina, and some mona that they took back home. ‘Auntie’

Labenia explained: ‘They are our labalaba, my late mother’s brother’s

children. They bring pegita, a gift of love. Later, we return it, because “love has a price” (oboboma ma’ana maisa)’. [Field Notes]

The gift of pegita is significant as a public display of socially appropriate exchange relationships between ‘fathers’ and their ‘children’. The term labalaba was translated as ‘boundary man’ by Fortune, which seemed inaccurate to my informants, as it appeared to exclude women.’ One Dobu friend speculated that the term might refer to closeness, as ‘in the garden we plant in neighbouring /aba [the word for the boundary of an individual’s garden plot] that is maybe why we call our brother’s children our labalaba’. For Fortune, however, a man’s relation-

ship with his deceased father’s hamlet is marked by hostility (1932:

53).

Several times during fieldwork I acted as labalaba, experiencing the benevolent atmosphere between ‘fathers’ and ‘children’ that is encouraged as typifying their morally appropriate relationship of mutual ‘love’ and ‘care’.* Two small children, a middle-aged man and a senior 229

Google

Dobu

woman died and were feasted in ‘my’ hamlet Losina. I recall the sadness and force of these exhausting events that left me sick, weary and

drained. Initially, too, I was puzzled. As I fully participated in all feasts, the news spread about my special interest in mortuary feasting and I was invited to observe a major bwana awana feast in Biabiaunina hamlet in Miadeba

on Normanby

Island.’ Another time, I distributed food

from a platform in Gomwa hamlet on Fergusson Island and on numerous occasions I went with groups from Losina to see other feasts, receiving and further distributing gifts of feasting food.4 The economic importance of labalaba and their steady and obedient support in Losina were obvious during feasting times. My data, however, indicate a discrepancy between the ideology and the reality of fatherhood that had not been mentioned by Fortune and others. The ambiguity associated with paternal love versus avuncular duty in matrilineal systems has been established since Malinowski’s analysis of Trobriand kinship (1929: 4ff). Thune writes of an ambiguous

paternal role in Duau, marked by ‘personal warmth, love, and even seeming sharing’ while the father is alive, contrasting with a child’s

‘permanently inferior, transactionally defined position with respect to

their father’s susw’ after his death (1980: 128-29). He identifies the

conflicting interests of a man’s matrilineage and his affines and children’s matrilineage as the root of an inherent flaw or ‘problem’ in the matrilineal doctrine (Thune 1980: vi, 134).

Inan early attempt to solve the so-called ‘matrilineal puzzle’, Audrey Richards points to the option of uxorilocal marriage and the practice

of ‘borrowing husbands’ (1950: 246ff). She states that ‘this might in

fact be described as the solution of the detachable husband’ that gives only senior men the privilege of living matrilocally (1950: 248).5 As we

have seen, residence in about two-thirds of all Dobu

marriages is

uxorilocal, though people anticipate problems arising between a man’s matrilineage and his own children when a man lives uxorilocally. Numerous myths address this issue. The concept of the ‘detachable husband’ also seems appropriate in the light of easy divorce and simple means of adoption for ‘fatherless’ children (pesieda), accompanied by only minor stigma.$ In her analysis of Tubetube myths, Macintyre argues that husbands are represented as ‘dispensable’: ‘In myth, the intrusive, alien husband is conveniently disposed of when his sexual services are no longer required’ (1988: 193). 230

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

As in Tubetube, similar myths convey the same message on Dobu; they present marital bonds as fragile and — if too troublesome — as easily

obviated.”

When applied to Dobu, however, the concept of the dispensable or detachable husband seems to be contradicted by a strong moral emphasis on ‘paternal love’. How can a ‘borrowed’ husband feel strong bonds of sentimental love for the children of his household who compete with him for his wife’s affection and create extra work? Why give labalaba substantial gifts, even kula valuables and pigs that need not be fully returned, if not ‘out of love and respect’ for their father? It is a fact that, on Dobu, biological fatherhood is sometimes associated with

paternal neglect, and the process of divorce and remarriage often brings

children a new father who provides for the household with his ‘work’ (see also Schlesier 1983: 79ff).® The new household members ‘get used

to each other’ and as the years pass they develop a relationship of

mutual ‘work’, based on the notion of ‘respect’. In cases where this is

not achieved, the marriage ends in divorce and the caring relationship

between a man and his wife’s children ceases to exist.

In this chapter, the tributary character of pegita gifts will be ana-

lysed for its significance for father-child relations as strategic rather

than emotional bonds.? My point is not that sentimental love between father and child does not exist, but rather that it really does not matter too much in the light of hamlet politics, in which this love is deployed as a rhetorical trope of closeness that legitimises the option of future relationships of mutual ‘help’ by formally integrating a son into his father’s matrilineage. It should not matter in everyday life either, because a man has the duty to provide for his wife’s children, ‘his children’.’° As a friend put it: If I do not look after my children well, then nobody is going to look after them well. Because their [maternal] uncle is not going to look

after them well. Knowing that whatever the uncle has will be automatically inherited by them, they do not have to contribute towards winning their uncle’s favour. So it’s not necessary for me to look after my niece and nephew. Sometimes the nephews even make jokes about you, knowing that whatever you have they will inherit, whether you like it or not. [Field Notes]

I argue that a relationship based on duty and ‘work’ (paisewa) is a 231

Google

Dobu

more apposite characterisation of the Dobu father-child relationship than ‘love and affection’. While affection is often created by ‘getting used to each other’ in everyday life, the notion of ‘paternal love’ reflects a moral ideal rather than a practical reality in many households. ‘Looking after’ a child creates a ‘personal debt’ and a man’s children repay this debt after his death by giving pegita as a tribute to his mat-

rilineage, the unit that represents him as ‘the fathers’. The better the

relationship of a dead man’s children with his matrilineage, the larger the pegita gift, and the more likely the integration of one child into the deceased father’s matrilineage. If on Dobu husbands are detachable, it appears that a strong ideology of loving fatherhood balances the discontinuity of male care-givers while extending the options for a person’s definition of paternal relations. While matrilineal relations are inevitable or given, paternal bonds are optional and based on complex personal relations between the members of the household and both spouses’ hamlets. To those brought up in a matrilineal regime themselves, however, like the Trobriand anthropologist Digim’Rina, there is no particular ‘problem’. Commenting on Thune’s concept of the ‘tragedy’ of matrilineality (1980: 13-14), Digim’Rina stated:

I sensed no such ‘tragedy’ in Basima perceptions of their world; again,

perhaps this is because neither they nor I saw their matriliny as ‘uncompromising’. We shared a common ‘matrilineal’ perception of

the world, if such exists .., [1995: 52]

The debate on the Massim father-child relationship has often been too far removed from everyday practice by focussing on psychoanalytical

aspects (notably the Oedipus debate),"' normative rules (Thune 1980; Kelly 1968), and the institutional perspective of structural-functionalism (for example, Fortes 1957). The ideal role of a southern Massim

male household member and loving care-giver has been described for Duau by Thune (1980: 87, 107) and for Tubetube by Macintyre (1983a: 52, 53n). He gives freely to his children, cares for them with his ‘hands

and heart’, ‘working’ for them as long as he lives with their mother. A man is not supposed to discriminate between his biological and social

relationship to his children as a matter of respect towards their mother, his wife. Under such conditions, according to the Dobu ideal, a man ‘looks after’ the children in his household with loving care, ‘working’ 232

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

for them and for his wife in a relationship of mutual help and affection. Basing my discussion on the analysis of a single sagali feast, I argue that mortuary exchanges on Dobu provide a significant element of flexibility, as they depend on individual conditions and relationships framed by considerable choice through the rhetoric of ‘love’ and ‘work’ as expressions of duty. The word for ‘love’, oboboma, really means ‘generosity’ and ‘friendship’, indicating an emotional willingness to share, based on a positive feeling for one another with a semantic undertone of indebtedness. It is a ‘name of a gift’ rather than a description of sentiment, a form of voluntary giving and taking under conditions of familiarity within a household. The sentiments involved in such gift-giving are described as ‘pity’, ‘care’, and ‘being used to each other’.'? In practice, relationships between children and male care-givers are more likely to develop on the basis of everyday routine and duty which are motivating factors for oboboma gifts. As Thune correctly points out, individuals are linked multiplicatively to other individuals of both maternal and paternal sides in any formal event, so that

the problem is really one of deciding to which side of a formal event one is to affiliate oneself and how to define that affiliation rather than whether or not a basis of affiliation exists. [1980: 146]

These ‘formal events’ are mortuary feasts, in which ‘fatherhood’ becomes a strategy to crosscut matrilineages, an optional pathway for strategic gift-giving ‘in the name of love’. The notion of ‘respect’ for a father includes his matrilineage and affines while he is alive, as the bilateral use of kinship terminology suggests. After his death, his matrilineage replaces his person by taking over his responsibilities towards his children, when all members turn into classificatory ‘fathers’ (tama-) in relation to his children, their Jabalaba. Fortune misunder-

stood this shift in kinship terminology (1932: 37ff) and the restrictions

of labalaba in their deceased father’s hamlet (1932: 194). Diagram 3

in Chapter 3 shows the parallel use of kin terms for both the mother’s and father’s matrilineage. The shift is most obvious where generational terms are involved (see also Thune 1980: 127-28); it includes, how-

ever, all members of the paternal matrilineage. This shift points towards a concept of ideal fatherhood as an important principle of social organisation, based on the doctrine of ‘love’ and sense of duty 233

Google

Dobu

between a male care-giver and the children of his household. When a man dies, many individuals can trace their position as a classificatory ‘child’, but only those who appear at his mortuary feast acting as labalaba verify their ‘respect’. By ‘working’ for their ‘father’, they can negotiate rights to use gardening land and maintain links of mutual support (/ema) that can lead to various degrees of adoption, if both sides desire it. Those who ‘work’ for a hamlet’s mortuary feast can legitimately claim rights of land use for a seasonal garden."* This is in fact the main aim in constructing exchange ties: the island’s limited resources are managed through the strategic use of kinship relations. The economic and political importance of mortuary feasts in the Massim has been widely discussed with a focus on exchanges (for example, by Chowning 1989, Damon 1989; Digim’Rina 1995; Macintyre 1989;

Young 1971). This aspect is also reflected in the expression of ‘straightening the paths’ of a deceased in terms of exchange relations (these final gifts are called ’ula’ula or aga, ‘new credits’, updating the ongoing relationships).'’ The political significance of sagali feasts as arenas for individual initiative has been highlighted (most recently by Digim’Rina 1995: 188ff) as well as their capacity to divide and create groups, to construct ‘enduring aspects of community by reference to the dead’ (Bloch and Parry 1982: 36).

On a symbolic level, it has been argued that ‘Massim mortuary practices rid the living of the active memory of the dead’ (Damon 1989: 17). Thune’s analysis stresses the underlying dualism of the ‘body’ of the deceased, represented by his matrilineage who recovers the corpse, and his ‘mind’, represented by his personal network that has to be discarded while retaining the fame of his accomplishments (1989: 15657). Despite Damon’s suggestion that this perspective might help to provide ‘some of the social and symbolic sense that would appear to lie behind the concentric village structures Fortune described for Dobu’ (1989: 7), my data do not support Thune’s argument. The network is re-organised, in particular when a male labalaba is accepted as his father’s substitute and fully adopted into his paternal matrilineage, thus enabling him to support his siblings through his father’s wealth. The complexity of mortuary feasting on Dobu in exposing ‘total social facts’ is comparable to other Massim societies. In Damon’s words: “[N]o description of any single Massim society, and no understanding of the region as a whole, can approach completeness until these rituals 234

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

Diagram 14: An overview of exchange relations between hamlets HAMLET 1

HAMLET 2

Marriage

Space

ODOOO

Affinal exchanges.

Death of first spouse

Bwabwale

Labalaba give pegita

Death of second spouse Bwabwale

Labalaba ‘work’

C)

‘Fathers’ smaller return gift Adoption of ‘substitute’ Mutual support and ‘help’

Labalaba show respect

C)

Time

are understood’ (1989: 3). In attempting to provide the data needed for such an understanding, my discussion of the concept of ‘fatherhood? will be illustrated by the analysis of a large feast. It is important to note that labalaba and ‘fathers’ are constant observers, advisers,

supporters and critics of mortuary feasting, a role that is related to the ‘voluntary’ character of their gift-giving. The labalaba are classified as tolema (literally ‘person-help’), or to’etabutabu- (literally ‘personprohibited’), depending on the context. In all cases, they are ‘workers’ (topaisewa, literally person-work), contributing individually to the success of another matrilineage’s feasting.

Feasting the dead: Basa, bwabwale and dugumalala Consonant with Massim ideology, Dobu people explain that mortuary feasting serves to honour the dead members of a susu. It is 235

Google

Dobu

accomplished by pleasing the spirits of dead relatives whose hamlets on Bwebweso are a precise copy of their hamlets on Dobu Island. After a person dies, the body is buried, and the spirit feasted and sent up to Mount Bwebweso in events called basa, awanoi i daudau, e’ule paipai and lausa apwesa (see Table 11).'° The subsequent stages of bwabwale,

dugumalala and sagali are said to serve primarily to maintain good relations with this spirit world. When such a feast is performed on Dobu, there is an identical one in the respective hamlet on Mount

Bwebweso and the spirits eat the non-substantial part of the food (‘they smell it’) and are happy. As the connection between Mount Bwebweso

and Dobu is not totally severed, the spirits are believed to remain in-

volved and partly present at their burial sites — ideally in the centre of each matrilineal block of land.” For this reason, a widow or widower is never again allowed to enter the village of her or his former spouse, not even to walk past it within view, because it is believed to be upsetting for a spirit to see the former spouse alive.'® Male spirits, however, are believed to enjoy seeing their children, a reason why it is regarded

as ‘bad manners’ to expel them from their paternal hamlet (asa tamana)

if they wish to remain closely attached to the homely place of their

childhood.'?

To ensure good relations with the spirits, three kinds of mortuary exchanges are required. First, basa immediately after the death, second, bwabwale or dugumalala after the burial, and finally sagali as a generational event that feasts all the deaths that have occurred since its last performance (see also Beledami 1974). Since space does not allow

for a full discussion of each of these events, my focus will be on sagali, the most organised and most ‘secular’ of all mortuary feasts. As sagali is a complex version of dugumalala and contains the basic elements of bwabwale, a brief account of the ‘death rituals’ basa, bwabwale and

dugumalala will resume and extend Fortune’s account of these feasts.?° Wailing over the body

After a death, the closest relatives head the long procession of mourn-

ers who come to mourn over the corpse (basa). Parents and children

stay close to the body, unable to recompose themselves or to stop crying, often remaining for hours until they are so exhausted and voiceless from wailing that they have to be forced to rest a little. When all 236

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty the matrilineages involved, headed by their elders, have cried over the

corpse, their senior members immediately call a meeting of representatives of the hamlet’s matrilineages and same-clan hamlets who want to engage as ‘helpers’. These delegates decide on a timetable, organise a

roster and allocate the immediate work for all household members.

Affines follow in the line of mourners and adult labalaba are expected to rush to their paternal hamlet to wail and support their ‘fathers’. Every adult brings one large yam tuber for a gift called basa (or three yams in a bowl, termed ege’egelu — ‘to make the deceased enter the canoe’) and passes this gift to the heirs of the deceased.?! Sometimes a kula valuable is given together with the yams, a gift called talo, given either ‘for love of the deceased’, or as a return gift (talo ana maisa).” This bagi or mwali is displayed on top of the pile of basa and ege’egelu yams. The basa gifts are heaped in baskets. A few mourners go to the dead person’s garden to plant gwala poles, declaring its produce as

bwabwale food.”

Gifts at basa like talo, and ege’egelu yams, symbolise grief and formalise the acceptance of dutiful involvement. Such gifts are measured as precise indicators of the number of mourners who are willing to participate in the future feasting events. Bringing yams for basa and crying over the corpse is both the public display of pity and sorrow and the assurance of support. In the evening, there were two full baskets of basa yams, each topped

with a kula valuable and some betel nuts. The mourning continued as small groups were led to the corpse where they cried and sobbed, wailed and keened. They embraced the corpse or gently touched her hand. At

this time, small parcels could have been placed on the right side of the corpse as presents or messages for the spirits of the mourner’s own kin. The widower lay next to the corpse as if he was sleeping. We ‘felt sorry’ for him as he was to go back to Duau for good. {Field Notes]

‘Eating’ is ‘work’ After the body is buried, the talo gifts are counted in order for them to be weighed in the decision-making process about the ‘rules’ for the events to follow. Two kinds of procedures are legitimate as bwabwale: the full cycle of exchanges (see Table 11), or a truncated sequence which tries to ‘finish everything’ after only a week or so. To my initial 237

Google

Dobu

confusion, bwabwale refers to a multitude of elements of mortuary feasting — the feast itself, the dead body, the food for the heirs, and other inheritance. The statement that ‘pegita is bwabwale’ increased my confusion. While a more comprehensive explanation for pegita will be given below, the concept of bwabwale will be explained in terms of the ‘work’ of mourning and eating, as a metaphor for everything that is part of the inheritance, including the corpse, the mourning widow(er) and children of a man (labalaba), growing garden produce, wealth, debts, and yams from the yam house. Bwabwale gradually decreases in intensity as the corpse decays, the spirit leaves, bwabwale food is consumed, the seed yams cleaned, the wealth distributed and the widow(er) and Jabalaba released from their mourning restrictions.

As I have indicated, the fact that individuals are multiply linked makes death an occasion when people consider their range of options to link themselves to other matrilineages in order to ‘work’ for the feast. Their choices are made public through — quite literally - conspicuous consumption.

Meliba, to give an example, is a senior landowner of Losina. For personal

reasons, she lives on a block of land on Fergusson Island that was given to her husband for lifetime use, a grant that she has extended to her immediate descendants through ‘work’. In Losina, too, many pigs were killed in her name when she contributed with her entire network of relationships, extending up to the Trobriand Islands, at various sagali

feasts. When I returned to Dobu in 1997 and attended a dugumalala feast in Losina as a

classificatory heir, ‘eater’, and landowner, I was

surprised to see her in the role of labalaba. She explained that as she has done more than her duty for Losina, she had chosen to support her ‘father’s’ side which was involved as the matrilineage of the father of the deceased, an affine to Losina. Subsequently, Meliba had sent her

basa yams and informed her sisters and ‘fathers’ of her intentions. As a labalaba she only made an appearance to deliver her gift and cry over

the corpse together with the delegation of her ‘fathers’. She did not touch the bwabwale food, out of ‘respect’ for her ‘fathers’ who could

not eat it. Her sisters ate bwabwale as the classificatory ‘mothers’ sisters’.

[Field Notes]

In such manner, the division between ‘those who eat’ and ‘those who

must not eat’ bwabwale food splits matrilineages, hamlet dwellers, and

households of the hamlets of other ‘helpers’. It is crucial to know one’s 238

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

position in relation to a particular feast, as the consumption of ‘forbidden food’ not only leads to a deadly disease, Jala, but also to spiteful gossip and shaming sanctions. As a rule related to the concept of bwabwale, the food from the platform cannot be eaten by individuals who have patrilateral links to Losina within two generations. The father’s place and the mother’s father’s or father’s father’s place have to be ‘respected’ by food taboos. The following generation is free of these restrictions (tubua limana, literally ‘to be born again’). Spouses always have to observe each other’s restrictions. Namesakes and close friends declare themselves non-eaters as a token of grief.” The strong emphasis on ‘respecting’ the rules of public consumption, the rigid division between those who eat and those who cannot eat bwabwale appears less severe in practice, however, when the labalaba are informally consoled for their abstinence with substantial gifts ‘to make them strong and happy’. The labalaba came to their paternal aunt’s house later in the evening. They received a gift ‘out of love’ and as a sign of gratitude for their generous support of the feast: a live pig, three baskets of yams and a bunch of bananas ‘so that they have something nice, too’, as I was told.

[Field Notes]

Once the person has announced the role that he or she will be playing, conspicuous eating or equally conspicuous abstention formalises the role. The gwala pole, a simple stick with a coconut jammed onto its top, indicates that a village is in mourning and that food restrictions are in force to ‘respect’ the deceased. If paternal relatives want to, they can also erect a gwala pole in their village. The food that is growing in the restricted areas can be used only by those relatives who are classified as ‘eaters’ of bwabwale food. A gwala pole reminds every individual of his or her particular form of involvement and sets landmarks of kinship reckoning. So far, I have referred to ‘eaters’ and ‘non-eaters’. As the complexity of bwabwale is centred on the notion of conspicuous eating, this distinction is legitimate. Yet ‘eating’ is but a metaphor for a more general form of consumption that leads finally to the extinction of the person as an individual, incorporating his or her spirit in the nameless line of ancestors, usually imagined as ancestresses, of the same matrilineage or hamlet. The following outline of the roles of ‘eaters’ 239

Google

Dobu

and ‘non-eaters’ will clarify the implications of decisions to be aligned with one or the other. A person who elects to be a principal mourner accepts to endure physical pain and deprivation as a form of ‘work’ that will be compensated later. In addition, mourners surrender them-

selves to the control of the heirs, a disempowered state that would be

impossible to imagine in any other context. Senior persons can express years of anger and enforce strict rules on ‘their widow(er)’. As will be evident, to be an ‘eater’ gives legitimate personal power in various ways. As a general principle, the members of a hamlet’s other matrilineages and of the helping hamlets of the same clan are automatically treated as classificatory kin through totemic reckoning (manua), unless they formally act as members of another group of their choice (like Meliba in the example above, who preferred the role

of labalaba to being a hamlet ‘owner’). Those who eat are called to’ebwabwale. This category of persons

consists of the heirs of the dead person: that is, her or his sister’s chil-

dren or mother’s siblings, maternal nephews and nieces, maternal aunts and uncles. The leaders of this group (toni tomota) are the principal heirs, those who set and remove the mourning restrictions. They are regarded as the only true mourners, the ‘persons who cry’ and ‘carry the corpse’. This group can include the undertakers if they come from a helping hamlet of the same clan (who choose to ‘eat’ as classificatory ‘uncles’) and occasionally yet other classificatory ‘uncles’ from a village of the same clan, if it is agreed that they had a special personal relationship to the dead person or to the mourning matrilineage. The gifts of food are reciprocated at a later stage. Nevertheless, those people who appear too keen to participate as to’ebwabwale are subjects of gossip. It is gracious, on the other hand, to refrain from eating bwabwale for sentimental reasons in spite of one’s rightful position. This is why like namesakes, adopted children and best friends of the deceased are expected to decline to be to’ebwabwale. Those who may not eat bwabwale are called to’etabutabu-. They comprise those who were closest to the dead person, his or her real mother, her own children and daughter’s grandchildren, real and classificatory brothers and sisters, namesakes, and closest friends. This category also embraces /abalaba, the father and his matrilineage (‘fathers’), all spouses of hamlet ‘owners’ and the widow or widower to-

gether with their matrilineal kin. 240

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty The role of the to’etabutabu- during bwabwale is not pleasant. They are also referred to as ‘the working people’ (topaisewa) and although

the food that is given to them in acknowledgement of their hard work

is meant to strengthen or ‘harden’ their bodies (lo’epa’ala or lo’eyawasina), it is usually of lesser value than the bwabwale food in

terms of the amount of pork. Like the Big Gifts to demonstrate grief (pegita) that are given by the children of a dead man to his matriline-

age, the mourners refrain from ‘happiness’ out of ‘love and respect’.

This explanation, however, conceals the fact that ‘work’ is at issue, partly as a return gift and partly as a credit. In mourning, more specifically, a form of counter exchange takes place, when the restrictions are tailored according to the past conduct of a widower or a widow and her children, to ‘reply to her conduct’. Mourning restrictions are strategically used as a legitimate form of punishment, as is reflected in the angry statement of my friend about a ‘bossy’ woman: Now she is showing off, but I simply wait until her husband dies. He is my maternal uncle (wa’a) and I will keep her crying for a long time when she comes to mourn him. [Field Notes]

Sentimental reasons based on matrilineage of the dead and guise such punitive intentions. sometimes so severe that the

the notion of ‘love and respect’ for the for their ancestors, are available to disIn the past, mourning obligations were early missionaries felt disgust and pity

(Bromilow 1929: 132-41; see Young 1989: 118). In fact, it must have

been extremely painful to be a principal mourner under traditional conditions. The mourning ropes (swagula) around the neck and upper arms had to remain dry, making it impossible to wash. Only the poorest food in the smallest quantities formed the diet for several months, even years. Mourning huts were rough shelters on the bare ground, often under someone’s house. Before missionaries banned the mourning ropes for widows and widowers, both sexes blackened their bodies; women wore long, dark skirts made from roughly cut coconut leaves.’ The mourning necklaces were indicative of servile obedience, for if they became wet or if insects infested or destroyed them, the to’ebwabwale had proof of disrespectful mourning demeanour. In this light it is obvious that bwabwale is an opportunity for personal revenge. If the matrilineage of the deceased is not happy with their affines, the 241

Google

Dobu

tureSe orjqnd ut yayseq & Suture;

‘ajomqvmga,o} Aq pay Ayjenpess

are suonsinsai poog ‘sured s,pueqsny ase] Jay JsaareYy 02 sey ays puke pesy Jay UO JeaM 0} Jay¥sSeq & UDAIZ SI MOPIM Y ‘vapred ay3 our ny BurUINOU! ay) Jo INO AeA (J9)MOpIA ay} 33] pue (s)ajod yyomZ aya aaourar Aayp saarey 3xXau ay} Joy ‘suonstysar ZuruInour saoual Ayjenpesd aomqvmga,o,

1wdind ajn_a sstayewsapun 343 10; 3uPjooD

ay

Jaye

Yoo]

pue

asdioo

ay

pren3

psp

UOT

P24Oo9 usaq sey Ys ay Jaye

aumadep ul pspq Jaye 4.4 Jeung

weap

aya Jaye afqissod se uoos se auraAep ut vsvq :kpoq peap aq} Jaa0 ButAa>

au pur 3uaAg

oe)

Go gle

Upeap ay Jaye syjuoUT Oma THE vquua

“paseacap ayi jo adey]IA ayy Ul ZulyooD ‘asnoy ay} Wo psAowal savy silay ay2 JeY3 UOSIad Peap aya jo susazt ppoyasnoy ay} Joy saangnsqns se s1yt3 awos aalaoad -nqvingyja,o |, *(0fP2) aaesd ayi OF! paquit]s oy UeUT ay? 03 aun, da18 pue -ngoingnia,o7 ay) J0y sured pajaad jyey pue sJayeuapun oy3 Joy sured yspq pue Ysy YOO ajonqumga,oL

Jeng ay Jaye Surusow ays nvpnvp 1 1oupmp :paseacap au Joy SuTysty

“Bunseay Jays Burstuesso0 Joy

Sunsay ‘Joqem owlos JO} wry Suryse ‘uosied peap ay) jo aweu aya ano ynoys Asay], “Yoraq ay3 Je UaWOM ay3 03 WI ssed pur ajod B uo Ysy ayy an “Burysiy 08 a8eypIa ayy Jo squapisar afew [TY ‘aolasas yomnyo

® yam ayo ‘asdsoo ay3 Ainq pue aaes8 ay) oredaid psp tuo]

+ Surdaajs ayN], Jo Sure ‘asnoy 343 apisut JO asdio9 ay3 03 3xaU sal] (19) MOpIAA *(111989,a3a 10 vspq) sues May ‘s1ouINOUT

B Bulsq pue asdiod ayy J9A0 AID ‘aud saanelsy ‘sajod yond

era

Ayanoy

apomqumg Jo appdo [eapt UY FT AIGEL

242

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

“uoKeIaUId SuLMOT[O} ByI UT JaAO 9ye3 (YqDIYGD]) UaIP]IYyD s,ueur & Ysnory3 suoHefar a8ueYoxa Mau ‘JayeaIay3 [PULIOU

st SuryzAzaaa ‘Ay]eapy “a[qissod se Ajyenba se pasueyoxa syr3 ay3 pue pausnjal are siseay ay; ‘saIp asnods puosas ay uay

“jewzou 03 sdiysuonejar

ay Sazoysar SITY], °07007 ye Jay padjay aaey oyM ssaseTpIA

wou

aun,

ou

pueulap

pue

9ut0>

peap

oy

jo

sIayiolg

Ja JOJ SYOO2 MOPIM ay], °S29I3 UMOP IND pure Bid eB ayer ‘a8e]]IA Jay ur ssuTyp Jo JO] & pueWlap pue UIP aavay “MOpLM ay

*x9y1080) puads Aaya 3ey} IYSIU IsIy ay) UO (177M IO

130q) aun, Jay 913 01 sey ay “I9AC] Mau B SEY MOPIM ay} UsyA

Surumnour

ASE]

VY}

VAOUII

ajomqumga,oy,

pep sey asnods puoses ay} sae

nomunomus 210 :(13)MOPiA 9y) BuNsEay

Joie] uN] auros

01007 :saUgye JOULIOJ 3Y} JO ISIA SVT

Jaye] au auos

0,27)80q ssmreyze Ao] 0} SuTUINIZy

Yeap ay) Jaye sreak 4noj 03 dn Ajzaurso} Ysaarey 1xX9U dy} JOYE

apomqung 3 pjnquény suorsnypas Surusnow jo pus oy],

oe)

Go gle

*qa8uans

WY} aAIZ, 03 -nquinqnja,04 a4) 10} (ofng) pooy YOod osye

ose om ajpmqomga,o2 ayy Aq pasueay Ajeorpoquids u29q

aavy Aays Jaye sured paas ays sia ‘oanayysqns ay ‘peap ay3 Jo Tay ayy, ‘ajomqvmga,o7 ay) isBuoure panquisipas st ou3aq “Sid & pur ‘asnoy we sty apisut 39] 239M JeYI sues OYA [Te pue spaas ay Supnysut ‘(ng13aq) sured Jo Yrs a8ze] “SUONIITISoT

& Bulg YqyjDqr] ZY], ‘peonpoxutal are axed Apog pue pooy

UeUINH,

243

Dobu

rules for bwabwale might be ‘hard’ and in the past could even be lifethreatening. Anger about the attitude or behaviour of the widow or the widower towards the deceased during the time of their marriage,

the suspicion of death by witchcraft, or sometimes sorcery, can result in very harsh mourning restrictions. These cause physical pain, skin diseases and general misery. As in many Massim societies, an increasing state of filthiness prevails until it is removed in the grand finale of bwabwale. Laughing and singing, dancing and kula exchange, are forbidden until the final release. Although the mourning rules had been significantly relaxed during the 20th century, they still involve restrictions of dress and demeanour, imposed by a man’s kin on his widow and children, who have to endure them stoically as a moral duty. I have not seen such drastic mourning, nor was I able to witness many bwabwale events during the period of my research, partly because hamlets tended to choose dugumalala feasting instead, and partly because bwabwale involves long hours of food preparation and exchange that is a more private affair and would have escaped my attention if done in another locality. The word bwabwale has no concrete referent as far as Dobu speakers could tell me; one might speculate, however, that there is an etymological relation to the word ‘boiling’, bwebwela (as on Tubetube Island the similar feast ligaliga is associated with the semantic context of being cooked [Macintyre 1983a: 346]).” Dugumalala - the ‘short cut’ If the number of basa gifts indicates that a large number of mourners can be expected to provide cooked food for bwabwale exchanges, the elders may decide to save resources and perform the alternative feast, dugumalala. This is often the case when people die in old age and leave anumber of adult children behind. However, apart from material considerations, dugumalala is also more appropriate for senior men and women as it involves a triumphant distribution of raw food from a specially erected platform (called bwaima or ata’ata, or by the Bwaiowa term, talaboi). This event is called ‘une, ‘to give away Big Gifts’. It is also referred to as a ‘small sagali’. Like a genuine sagali feast, dugumalala offers opportunities for public statements of a personal and political nature. Unlike a real sagali, gifts of affines are generally

244

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

not required, thereby keeping the range of indebtedness significantly narrower. A quick feast is in line with ‘modern ways’, meeting the requirements of those who are employed elsewhere and have only short periods of leave. After it had been modified by missionaries, who outlawed the handling of human skulls, it now serves Christian ideals by limiting mourning restrictions.” There are three alternative ‘short cuts’ for bwabwale, three versions of dugumalala feasts, depending on the length of time between death and the final ceremony, the lausa apwesa dance and distribution of gifts from a platform (une, sagali). After a person’s death, his or her spirit is believed to be present in the village for another three days, waiting for spirit relatives to come and strengthen the immaterial body with a kwaputa banana to help endure the trip to Mount Bwebweso. The spirits, as well as the human hamlet dwellers, prepare for the mor-

tuary feast and take the new spirit with them to Bwebweso after ‘their feast’ is over. The humans should begin the feast by performing lausa apwesa (literally ‘dance-appear’) before the spirits do so to ensure a dignified end of the feast that is thought to please the spirit of the deceased. Otherwise, the drums will not sound as powerfully and the dance will lack beauty and force of expression, hinting publicly that the feast was so late and poorly organised that the spirits have already gone back to Bwebweso. Ina strict sense, only a celebration that takes place on the very day of the burial is a dugumalala. If the dance and distribution takes place up to four days afterwards it is called kobakobala, and if the preparations take still longer it is called pwauta sagasagali. The more time that has passed, the more likely it is that ‘the spirits have gone back’, but, understandably, delays and postponements often occur. The debts of the deceased have to be repaid at dugumalala, an obligation that might need time and even involve hastily scheduled kula exchanges with overseas partners. With time, however, public expectation of the size of the feast grows, resulting in even more strain on the budget and its man-

agement. On the appointed day of the lausa apwesa dance with subsequent distribution of yams and pork, decorated men with drums hide in a small hut. Outside, women in their finery, firstly hidden behind a mat, call out for the spirit to go to Bwebweso, until the drums answer them and the men emerge in dancing formation. Amidst the men are two 245

Google

Dobu

dancers who hop like birds, one holding a small model of an outrigger (kewekewe’u), the other a model of a yam house (duguma). The dance

proceeds with the women encircling the men with quick, long steps, holding their right hands up and waving cordyline leaves. I could not find anybody, including the dance teacher, Taitai from Enaia, who was able to explain the meaning of the dance other than in terms of its purpose — to send the spirit to Bwebweso. The words were recorded by Fortune (1932: 257; see also an interpretation by Franklyn 1936). Informants were unable to translate all the words, let alone their symbolism; however, they stressed the importance of its function in send-

ing the spirit away.

Table 12: Sending the spirit away with lausa apwesa

‘The women are hidden behind a mat that is held up, facing the drummers’ hut. One of them begins to sing the /ausa apwesa song; the mat is removed and the women

form a line, singing: Ya bwebweso, gwamaina, gwama i do, douina Ya bwebweso gagabia ya doudou diladila

On Bwebweso, the child is crying. On Bwebweso, (2) I cry desperately

Drums. Repeat three times, each time louder, and the walls shake more until the men burst out of the hut and the dance begins. The drummers form a circle, at its centre two boys holding duguma and kewekewe’u; the women circle around the group of men. The men sing lausa ba’u:

Muwedukuna, mwedukuna, ya bwebweso gwama i dou, Bwebweso lagalaga. Mwedukuna, mwedukuna, galoibwa i bwaiabwaia ya ulawa, mwedukuna mwedukuna.

In the early morning on Bwebweso the child is crying, I go up to Bwebweso. In the early morning, () In the early morning.

A short break indicates the start of the second ‘song’ by solo singers:

Dokwabu salewina salewega salewina.

(see Fortune 1932: 187 for a lyrical translation of this part as my informants did not understand most of the words of this song.) Igo up to Bwebweso.

Bwebweso lagalaga

These lines are repeated twice by the first singer. A drum stop follows, the men make a hissing sound, another man repeats it once, another drum stop. This whole

part is repeated (‘cut’) thrice, then the first singer ends with a ‘chorus’ (sipwa, literally

‘knot’):

salewega, ya mwela ya ‘eseyaseyalu Dobu ya mweloloe, Bwebweso lagalaga

From (pandanus?) I climb, I (get stalks ?) I mourn for Dobu, going up to Bwebweso.

Then men and women disappear into the hut and the door is shut. 246

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty This dance takes about twenty minutes. As soon as it is over, the female ‘owners’ of the hamlet open the distribution ceremony by encircling the platform. The gift-giving, the decoration of the platform, the order of gifts and speeches are basically the same as in the sagali distribution that I shall describe later. The platform is removed as quickly as possible and the widow/(er) is formally released and brought back to the hamlet of his or her matrilineage. The end of the mortuary ritual is marked by a final meeting when the last comments and complaints, accusations and declarations can be expressed in public. A person’s history of participation in feasts like basa, bwabwale and dugumalala is an indication of his or her individual qualities. The observed attitudes and conduct during such participation are testimony to his or her motivation, ambition, ability to sustain physical discomfort, and socialising skills. In rhetoric, these qualities are expressed in comments about someone being ‘truly hardworking’, having extraordinary stamina, or having a friendly or amiable temperament. Such individuals have achieved a degree of personal renown that gives them

multiple sets of options for future pleas for support in return, as for a

temporary plot of garden land. This is the sense in which ‘love has a price’, for the rhetoric of ‘friendship and generosity’ serves to indicate the moral duty to return such gifts. Sagali in Losina The decision to host a major feast is often motivated by political reasons, expressed in terms of ‘shame’: ‘shame has speared us, sagali closes the wound’. In the case to be described here, the jolly entertainment of an all-night disco-dance in Losina had disturbed the silence of mourning in the neighbouring hamlet of Obunebune, just fifty metres from Losina. As a result of ‘caring’ relationships between individuals of Losina and the deceased, and classificatory wa’a relations of these persons with Obunebune, the incident had insulting overtones. Manukalai of Obunebune, a powerful and determined man (esa’esa) and senior

resident in his maternal hamlet, reacted by ‘shaming’ Losina with gifts. First, at the dugumalala feast that ended the immediate mourning for his sister, he distributed a portion of the initial ali’ali gift to Losina, an

insult that was ignored by Losina and never returned (so he told me in

1997). Second, with only his sister’s knowledge, he had prepared an 247

Google

Dobu

accusatory gift (gaipoteya), a huge basket filled with large yams. He

called out from the platform: ‘Eh, Losina, your share for our (incl.)

“sister”! You like your disco music, don’t you? You have no respect at all. Here your gaipoteya, and your pig is down there. And here is your mwali. Shame on you!’ This public shaming of Losina residents was too severe to be ignored. Furthermore, Manukalai’s gift of ’une had to be returned (maisa) to avoid even further damage to ‘Losina people’s name’. The only way to repay such debts is through counter gifts at sagali (see also Digim’Rina

1995: 167). This context facilitated the consensus needed for a suc-

cessful sagali feast, increasing the residents’ resolve to invest months of work, recall all outstanding debts, sacrifice all riches and activate

the entire network of ‘helpers’ (muli and labalaba). A formal reason for the feast was easily constructed, forcibly involving the errant teenagers’ matrilineage as principal feast givers (to’ali, literally personburial).

It took several meetings and some months of informal negotiations

until the residents of Losina decided, in December

1991, to hold a

sagali a full year later, which would be formally dedicated to the memory of all the deceased of the hamlet, in particular to Lilly (1914-91), the

teenagers’ maternal grandmother, and her brothers Jerome (1912-80) and Gibson (1921-91).”8 It is an accommodation to workers’ and stu-

dents’ Christmas leave to hold sagali in December, the hottest time of the year, when new gardens should be the focus of attention. Before

such factors became important, sagali were usually held after the yam harvest. Our time for preparation was short and relations between the four matrilineages of Losina were tense. An open conflict over a block of land between a returning elderly couple and the matrilineage which used the disputed land, took several mediating sessions to settle provisionally. The elderly couple (of local eminence) who tried to move into Losina were interested in participating in the sagali in order to strengthen their argument for land rights. With the exception of the opposing party, the Losina matrilineages sympathised with the couple’s involvement because it would increase the amount of gifts and make the feast more impressive, thereby enhancing its fame. To avoid aggravating tensions, the elderly couple did not attend the meetings but used a middleman to keep them informed and trans248

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

mit their responses to the main organiser, tonisagali Kaibado. He qualified as tonisagali both as the husband of the eldest woman and as a

feared sorcerer who was active in kula exchange and known for his

efficient garden magic. This was despite the fact that he belonged to a different village and clan, though he and his matrilineage (from We’itaa) had always been reliable helpers and had generously contributed to a

former sagali in Losina in the mid-1970s. Since his marriage was in-

tact, everybody expected his wife to have a strong influence on his

decisions and there were no objections to his leadership on this occasion.

When I arrived in Losina in July 1992, the harvest was still con-

tinuing and the final decision as to whether a sagali would be held had

not yet been made. The conflict over the land was about to escalate after the couple’s sons devastated a plot that was claimed by their parents. For the sake of the sagali, there was little response to this act of deliberate despoilment. And although it was strongly disapproved informally, the councillor who tried to settle the dispute was unable to call any witnesses.2? Nobody wanted to raise the question of land rights, because any statement could have disrupted the solidarity necessary for the sagali. Meetings were generally held in the evenings after dinner. They rarely took longer than an hour. About thirty adults with their children, landowners and spouses, sat together in a rough circle, grouped into matrilineages. Hamlet ‘owners’ sat closer to the centre of the circle than affines; women of the same matrilineages sat together. A lot of attention was given to the preparation of betel chewing and smoking ingredients, to settling down the children, and to swatting mosquitoes. As I learned much later, these were all gestures of embarrassment con-

cerning open talk about ‘uve rather than the signs of indifference that linitially suspected. After a while I realised that some of those present were not Losina residents. ‘We are like you, of the same clan, so we

help each other,’ as one of these visitors explained. While Losina was still in the process of decision-making, affinal relatives were informally alerted and began to organise their losusu gifts of a pig, a couple of baskets of yams and some bunches of bananas, sugar cane, and betel nuts to support their relative and ‘make the food bigger’ (lo’epwaseyana). These gifts improve the social standing of an affine residing in the hamlet of the spouse. As years - and feasts — go by such affines eventually become respected and powerful 249

Google

Dobu

elders, occasionally accumulating sufficient prestige to speak out publicly, acting on behalf of the landowners, like Kaibado, the organiser

of the feast described here.

While preliminary arrangements were being made in the slow process of negotiation, keeping the men busy with visiting exchange partners, the women

finished their yam harvest and decided how many

yams they could contribute to the feast. Finally, at a meeting on 30 August 1992, each woman named the number of large baskets of yams from her yam house. As a rule, there should be at least ten baskets

from each adult landowner but as the preparatory time was short some families claimed to have slightly less. Calculating their resources, the villagers decided to make a feast on a small scale with the help of only the direct in-laws’ families. Another possibility would have been to

activate these in-laws’ networks as well, but the burden of debts for a

long period afterwards made this strategy unattractive, its ‘repayment heavy’. Senior women, often paternal relatives who have renown in the management and proper packing of yams into baskets, count each yam house’s contribution and announce the numbers. The counting took place at around noon but these women had to refrain from touching food until the task was completed, when a good meal was cooked for them. The yams that were counted were later piled into separate heaps in the rear section of the individual yam houses and were not to be used for any other purpose. The definite decision for the celebration of sagali in December 1992 was made on 3 September. The women were formally asked for their consent and answered, ‘Yes’. No sagali can be made without the women’s consent, a generally acknowledged fact that shows that women are the true rulers of such feasts while the men act as speakers, drawing public attention to their wealth. In Dobu, this is expressed as a proverb: ‘The man is rich, the woman is the person giving the shade’. After the women had agreed to provide the yams, the tonisagali could proceed to plan the next steps. Each household was expected to provide at least one large pig, to rebuild houses and kitchen huts to make the village look nice, and to help those relatives who came only for the time of sagali to build temporary shelters. Hamlets which were involved as labalaba or ‘father’s’ had internal meetings and decided upon their degree of involvement. Gibson’s chil250

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

dren still had to return their main bwabwale gifts (pegita), an event that could be accommodated within the preparations for sagali. The landowners and the labalaba had grown up together as cousins and if they performed well during their father’s bwabwale feasts they could expect to be respected by their ‘fathers’. The children of labalaba, called tubutubu-, assist their parents with further contributions if they are old enough to produce. At the sagali the labalaba climbs onto the platform and distributes the wealth that he or she has collected through matrilineal links, and is thereby enabled to become a full member of his or her father’s matrilineage. Out of respect for his dead father this person would still not want to eat anything that grew near his grave or within the village. But apart from this rule there are no restrictions in gardening or general conduct. Names are commonly passed on within a matrilineage and lent out to other matrilineages through paternal relations to create the option of a son becoming the ‘substitute’ of his deceased father. Such a namesake who participated in all the celebrations of his bwabwale feasts gains land rights and might eventually be accepted as the full ‘substitute’ of the deceased. To the feast in Losina, for example, Gibson’s

children contributed a total of seven huge pigs, more than sixty baskets of yams, including several baskets of valuable seed yams, and an abundance of sugar cane, betel nuts and bananas. This list does not include debts owing to the store by ‘fathers’ from Losina and substantial amounts of store goods that were part of pegita. It is a principle that sons only should be adopted into their father’s matrilineage, limiting the granted rights to only one generation. The temporary character of this privilege would be in question if a daughter were to become a ‘substitute’ because she would pass her residential rights onto her own children, a right that no one could deny her. In Dobu, the proverb ‘the woman has a tail’ describes this principle succinctly, referring to her offspring asa ‘tail’. In reality, it has often been disregarded, for example, when a matrilineage feared its extinction. Adopted women form new matrilineages whose members can claim residential rights, often leading to land disputes between such ‘subclans’ (the term used in land mediations). In fact, both parties in Losina’s current land dispute had originated from adopted women (from Duau and Trobriands) and people made critical comments about the assertive and ‘disrespectful’ behaviour of such ‘passengers’ who fought for 251

Google

Dobu

rights that had been granted to their ancestresses some generations ago.

The second principle governing the adoption of a labalaba is based on the notion of ‘work’, a point that I have made repeatedly throughout the book. The expression that ‘work sets the rules’ subsumes this element (see also Thune 1980: 222). Thirdly, it is generally seen as an advantage if the adopted member belongs to the same clan, or at least to a clan with a bird-nesting pattern that matches the father’s totemic clan. This last requirement is flexible as it mainly concerns issues of mortuary ‘work’, but if the totemic clans do not match and a namesake cannot be returned to his or her mother’s hamlet for burial, an-

other nearby hamlet of the same clan can bury the body.*° Many people stated, however, that interpersonal conflicts can be expected if the clan birds do not align.

Talk about the feast often uses gifts as metaphors or to anchor

points of discourse. I often participated in mortuary ‘work’ because I had shown interest early in my fieldwork and people liked me taking photographs and distributing prints later on. I joined the joking women before and after they cried over a corpse. On these occasions, I was told gossip such as the following: Ask her where she was at X’s bwabwale. She won’t tell you, but I tell you now: she didn’t come! She did not bring her pegita. This is true!

And now she wants some garden land from them! Really, she has no

shame! [Field Notes]

At this stage, it seems appropriate to explain further the ‘gift of love’, pegita. As I have indicated, it is a form of tribute, given to express symbolically one’s grief over the loss of the father and to demonstrate the ‘love’ and sense of duty to the deceased and his matrilineage. It is meant to finish the debts that were created through the dead person’s involvement in ‘work’ and life in the village of the spouse, to return his or her yam variety. The seed yam is ‘spoiled’ by the death and has to be cleansed by the to’ebwabwale by eating a part of it cooked as a special mash. The smaller return gift for pegita is called seudana. It is presented together with cooked food to ‘strengthen the bodies’ of the labalaba.! If, for example, the labalaba give five baskets of yams, two pots of mona, and a pig as their pegita gift, only one basket of yams and one 252

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

pot of mona are returned as seudana (for ten baskets five are returned, for eight baskets four are returned, for twenty baskets five to ten are returned). Pigs are not explicitly returned at all. In total, approximately one third of pegita is not repaid. It is a tribute and represents a male care-giver’s ‘work’. This unpaid part, called esio daita, is a symbolic crystallisation of the bond of duty between a man and the children of his household, the ‘price’ for his ‘love’, reinforced, as we shall see, by shame as a sanction for labalaba who fail to ‘show their respect for their father’s love and care’. Based on this symbolism, the labalaba are expected to associate pegita with the memory of their father and to feel their grief with re-

newed intensity while witnessing how it becomes food for the

to’ebwabwale. They watch how the last possessions of their father are burned when a large pig is singed, when his heirs destroy the last mementos, incorporating their maternal uncle. The term for this procedure refers to the perspective of labalaba: ‘they burn the basket of their father’. If the relationship with the to’ebwabwale is good they receive a smaller gift of yams and sometimes a pig for their consumption, ‘to make them feel a little better’. This gift has no specific name and is meant ‘to strengthen their bodies’, but the labalaba come and pick it up at night as if in secret, because they may not consume any food that is related to the feast and have to redistribute any public gifts given to them. Getting it all together Building material for shelters, extensions of kitchen huts and repairs of existing houses had to be acquired through muli links, because Dobu has scarcely any sago palms or large trees for house posts. The sewing of sago leaves for the roofs was done communally; the women took out the middle rib of the thorny sago leaves while the men sew the leaves onto sticks. Some days were spent on this work and those villagers whose roofs were being prepared provided cooked food, tea, betel nuts and tobacco for the helpers. The work took place in the centre of the hamlet of the matrilineage that had organised the sago for their houses. The hamlet, usually divided by the separate matrilineages and their constituent households, was formally united during this work, and people sat next to their same-sex-siblings or 253

Google

Dobu

other peers and chatted while working. The next phase was announced on 9 December 1992, when the first pigs were brought to the village by landowners. A diesel-engine vessel was chartered to go to Ioo (on northern Normanby) where three pigs were bought from the relatives of a landowner’s husband. On this trip everybody was very happy and felt relief because these first pigs were the signal for all the helpers from different villages to bring their contributions. All the way back the conch shell (yoguli) was proudly

blown. A particular sequence of blasts — long, short, short, short —

announced the transport of pigs for a feast.** It was night when the vessel anchored at Losina beach. The people gathered and helped to bring the pigs ashore and into their fences. There was much excitement and a general feeling of relief - the sound of the conch had spread the news already and now the concrete stage of accumulation had started. The landowners as well as their in-laws and labalaba now had to bring more pigs and the men spent much time visiting other hamlets to meet their friends, relatives, debtors, or kula partners. If the feast had

been planned well ahead, more people would have raised their own

for this purpose. At short notice, however, only a few households were

able to make use of their networks and obtain pigs on credit, while most others had to spend money and undertake extended travelling to find pigs. Our affinal helpers had to overcome the same difficulty. The sound of the conch became very common during the following month as the in-laws brought their /osusu gifts. The landowning spouse, in most cases the wife, had already begun to prepare a rich meal for the guests while serving tea and biscuits as a first refreshment. This meant a lot of work and much strain on the household budget of money and large yams. These visitors had to be treated with the utmost politeness and as they brought their contribution they sometimes gave speeches, mentioning embarrassing events and criticising the landowner, a practice that I have mentioned as an option when giving Big Gifts (ta’ona). Rosie (forty-five years) was very embarrassed when her husband’s relatives from Gomwa

(Fergusson) came to bring their contribution.

After they had placed ten baskets of yams, one pig and a bunch of bananas in front of her, her husband’s sister raised her voice and told her off: ‘This is our share, we brought it because we respect you. We

wonder if you, too, respect us, because you never come to live in our

place with your family. Is Gomwa a bad place? And why are you so

254

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty unfriendly with your husband — my true brother?’ Rosie could not reply but she felt very ashamed and spent much time thinking about the

incident. Her sister-in-law was right; she had rarely spent more than a

few days in Gomwa and her husband often went there on his own to help with the garden work. She told me that her main reason was the long way to the toilet and the discomfort that was caused by this. The

second accusation was related to a domestic argument after her husband

had belted their children. She had said that he would have to make bwabwale for the children if he killed them. This he had reported to his matrilineage and they were angry. If he made bwabwale they would have to participate by giving pigs and yams. It is very rude to anticipate

this feast, even jokingly, and her statement was certainly not meant to

be reported to her in-laws. The feeling of shame would not be expunged

until the peak event of the sagali when Rosie could give a gift to her

mother-in-law with an apology or retaliatory response. [Field Notes]

The sagali was a good occasion for settling all kinds of personal debts.

One affine had not come back to Losina to mourn the death of his

mother-in-law who had died about a year ago. As a consequence, he was expected to display mourning behaviour until he returned to Losina with a large pig, some baskets of yams, betel nuts and bunches of bananas. His matrilineage joined him when he brought the required gifts of apology and the party began to cry as in mourning when they approached the landowners. This gift is called matabola, a compensation and apology for failure to ‘work’ for the hamlet when needed. One senior woman received a special gift from her husband’s sister’s son who had lived with them for some years. As a sign of his love and gratitude, he and his helpers built an enormously enlarged basket in front of her house. This construction (udila) was in fact an ordinary

basket with long sticks vertically attached to extend its height. About eight baskets of yams were emptied inside and as the sticks were tied together the yams were visible. This impressive structure was decorated with some betel nuts, bleached pandanus leaves and some twoKina notes. Beneath the udila the man had also erected a small plat-

form that was filled with two more baskets of yams and betel nuts. Five bunches meant to be had received oboboma -

of bananas were hung besides the platform. This gift was a repayment for all the help and support that the donor during the period he had lived in this household. It was and not to be repaid, as he announced in his speech of 255

Google

Dobu

gratitude. Strictly speaking, it was a return gift for the woman’s ‘work’

for him in his childhood, but as it concerns the ethics of household life,

the term oboboma reflects on her everyday sharing with him as well as a moral obligation to display ‘love’ for one another and to return it (oboboma ma’ana maisa, ‘love has a price’). This stage of preparation was very stressful for the landowners. The sound of the conch made them dash to the beach to find out whose muli had come to bring their share. The woman whose in-laws arrived had to rush and prepare food, spread comfortable mats and arrange everything for a warm and generous welcome. All of a sudden, she had to peel yams and cook rice, find betel nuts and tobacco and share them with the guests. Often the children were sent running to the next trade store to get some canned fish, rice, tobacco, sugar or hard biscuits. Very often they had to ask for credit. There was much solidarity during this time, and a lot of mutual help, such as sending a child with a large yam or some fresh scones across to a sister who was about to start cooking. At this stage, this help (/ema) occurred mainly within

the matrilineages of Losina as they independently hosted their respec-

tive helpers. Sometimes, people had to stay awake at night because they expected uli to arrive, but schedules were characteristically vague and the uncertainty about their time of arrival increased the general domestic stress. As those landowners who lived elsewhere arrived, built their shel-

ters and moved in, it became obvious why some of them did not live in

their own village. Quarrels between siblings broke out openly, and in this time of extremely hard work and strict duties everybody’s patience was stretched. Children were scolded more frequently and they had to help much more than usual. Some of the people who came for the feast brought children who had never lived on Dobu and knew nothing about local custom. They did not share the fears and worries, could not see

the importance of the feast and did not care about the shame that they could cause by behaving improperly. They did not even understand that their very presence at the feast would grant them land rights in Losina.? The parents of these children brought money in order to purchase some yams, pay off debts in trade stores and provide all the ‘help’ that they were expected to give. Many people were worried, however, that the sagali might be ‘spoiled’ through the ignorant, unthinking mistakes of these children. Interpersonal tensions are often 256

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

blamed for sickness and death, perceived as personal revenge for conflicts arising from incidents during sagali time. In fact there were some cases of severe malaria and typhoid-like fevers; one girl developed an eye-infection (‘red eye’) that is said to be caused by witches, and most

people (including myself) had bronchitis. These sicknesses were all explained in terms of ‘jealousy’. Hanmllet life was intensified by the extra visitors in their temporary shelters, and the usual number of residents almost doubled. Gibson’s

namesake likewise built a hut and moved in with his wife and children, though he spent much time in his mother’s household. Building a house signifies a close relationship with the land of a hamlet; it is a demonstration of rights. This aspect was most important for viri- and neolocally living ‘owners’, who took the opportunity to introduce their children to the residents and let them distribute gifts as public demonstrations of ‘ownership’.

The platform A week before the final feast, all the men of Losina, some labalaba, and other helpers went across to Normanby to cut the timber for the platform. The trunks of trees and bundles of bamboo were shipped to Dobu on a

diesel-engine vessel (MV Kwadima) while the men proudly

blew the conch shell as they approached the beach of Losina. The building material was floated ashore and carried a little way inland where it was placed under leaves. After their work was finished, all the men

were served an opulent meal that the women of Losina had cooked during the day. When I asked about the building material, ‘Auntie’ Labenia explained

that it is hidden from view as a precaution against the powerful bush

spirit Taumudumudulele who would otherwise put some deadly magic on it. ‘Although we all know that this building material is hidden next

to the path under branches with green leaves we should never go close to it. We women are not to touch it at all, or to step over it. Otherwise

we will not have enough yams to fill the platform!’ [Field Notes]

The cutting and covering of the building material forced the people to finish all their preparations, and the last trips to pick up pigs and yams were made in haste. The time of preparation was over, 257

Google

Dobu

Taumudumudulele might find the material for the platform under the leaves. More than usual, possible attacks by witches scared the residents of Losina. Rumours spread about an attack of witches, about the rarely mentioned, hungry sea witches, and about the appearance of Taumudumudulele. Alleged sightings were widely discussed in the evenings. Nobody was supposed to leave the hamlet at night and many people were too scared to use the toilet in the early morning hours, the time when Taumudumudulele was believed to walk home after spending the night with a witch-lover.** I was warned repeatedly that ‘one look into your face will instantly kill you’. In fact the fear became so intense that Kaibado, the organiser of the feast (tonisagali), had to repel Taumudumudulele with his powerful magic to quieten the ru-

mours.

At the last meeting before the actual sagali began, on 10 January, Kaibado collected exact information about all debts that would have to be repaid. Not only the number of baskets of yams but also their contents were memorised. How many yams had to be returned from which occasion and who was supposed to provide it? Where did the three baskets end up that someone had claimed they had given before? Whose pigs would be killed for the ceremonial meals? The memory of the dead likewise became important for the planning at this stage, because during the actual feast there are some occasions when their habits are imitated, until at the very end the last restrictions related to

their deaths, including the taboo on mentioning their names, are lifted. As Lilly, Jerome and Gibson had been the children of missionaries, their idiosyncratic habits were related to their Christian upbringing: Lilly had loved to sing hymns and usually wore meri blaus; Jerome had spoken a funny kind of broken English and always wore a blue /aplap. These characteristics were to be recalled during the celebration of their sagali. The timetable for the events was arranged and duties were del-

egated to the different matrilineages. Another point of discussion was

whether the singing should be made into a competition or not. Some people said that the quality of singing would be better if it was organised as a competition between two or three villages, but the tonisagali objected because it was now too late to arrange this, an argument that was generally accepted. This meeting went on from seven to eleven at night and some of the women fell asleep, exhausted by the day’s work. After the meeting, the tonisagali confirmed once again the consensus 258

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

of the women, and, thus reassured, distributed pieces of black tobacco to all participants. The next day marked the beginning of feasting time and from this day on nobody was supposed to sleep at night. Naturally, everybody went silently into their houses for at least a few hours’ sleep during the day or night, but sleep deprivation was a significant feature of the following week. On 11 January the timber was taken out of its hiding place and the men built a large platform. It was 21 metres long and 3 metres wide, had four sets of steps and was about 3 metres high (see Diagram 15). It was constructed near the old grave site of the hamlet of the deceased. This site, located within the centre of the hamlet, had not been used for decades and some women and children spent hours weeding it, encircling it with clam shells, and spreading clean sand inside the encircled area so that it was easily visible and nobody would carelessly step on it. The building of the platform was ideally not to be watched by women; but those who lived next to the site could stay and do their work without objection. While the men were working on the platform the women did even more cooking than before. In addition to the cooked food for the workers (the male residents of Losina, some labalaba and in-laws and other voluntary helpers), they also had to prepare the feasting food for the ceremonial meal that took place after the completion of the platform. The food was served on two tables, the second reserved for the more casually involved, non-related helpers, who were mainly men from neighbouring hamlets. That afternoon, our /abalaba, headed by their maternal uncle Benjamin,

brought a large pig, covered with a fine mat and underneath decorated

with objects of the dead man: his bow tie, shirt, axe, belt, shoes, lime

spatula, and his basket. The pig and its stretcher were covered in betel nuts, streamers of betel nuts, balloons and two-Kina notes. I took photos of the three baskets of yam seeds, fourteen baskets of yams, eleven bunches of bananas and numerous betel nuts that came with the pig.

As usual, the labalaba cried, when they approached Losina, but this time their sorrow seemed even more genuine. ‘Auntie’ Labenia explained that they had brought the last remaining possessions of their deceased

father who had died at his wife’s hamlet. ‘Ideally’, she said, ‘we should

get our mementos and also fasten them onto this pig, to remain there when it is killed and singed, so that “everything is finished”. Me and my sisters, however, do not want to part with our memento. I think

259

Google

Dobu that today this happens often among people with more education. They

keep photographs and other memories that should have been destroyed

at sagali.’ In the evening, Benjamin came over to our house and said

that there were fifteen more baskets of yams, the last harvest of the

deceased, and that the labalaba would bring them as their pegita tomorrow. [Field Notes]

At sunset, the male ‘owners’ of Losina had a second large meal. Their

mothers and sisters served it on the platform. This ceremony is called

esanalasa (to bite a piece of food in order to eat it) and serves as a

‘warming-up’ of the platform. Informally divided into their matrilineages they sat in two rows facing each other across spread banana leaves that were covered with feasting food: pork, fish, large yams, and mona pudding. The children were allowed to eat as much pork and fish as they could grab, and some people did not wait until the opening Christian grace was finished. The spouses ate their share of the same food on the ground in front of the platform. In the evening, a Coleman lamp was lit and people sat around, telling stories, chewing betel nuts and playing 500 (a card game) until sunrise. The platform, once completed, should only be climbed by the landowners. Its presence increased the tension through fear of Taumudumudulele and the vigils were held to prevent his malicious manipulations. He could put magic on the platform and cause people’s death when they climbed up. This was the principal reason for the exhausting vigils. The next day was devoted to loading the yams on top of the platform (emasula). The conch was blown continuously as basket by basket was carried up and emptied.*° Again, each matrilineage had its own section and each household put all its yams on its own heap (siwa). In some cases, when there were many siblings, they formed pairs and pooled their yams. The waliesa (namesake) from the labalaba side of the late Gibson, Litiati, had his own heap (called bolx). His land rights had already been granted informally when he had built his shelter in Losina a week previously, but to observe proper procedure he had to act as an ‘owner’ by climbing the platform and distributing bwabwale yams. The heavy baskets were usually carried up the steps by women, but the men also helped. Men carried the baskets on their shoulders and occasionally a landowner’s husband climbed up as well to help his wife. Although this was — strictly speaking — against the rules, nobody objected. 260

Google

The Price of Love: Mortuary Feasting and Paternal Duty

Diagram 15: The platform of Losina’s sagali feast

2

2

oO

Laba-|

laba

}

Susu 1 Pork

Yams

Susu 4

Oni

Extensions

=

| ‘2

: o

gE $

Q